


(Tell Me) The Colour Of The Rain

by commoncomitatus



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Identity Issues, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sera's hatred for the Dalish is more than reciprocated. In a place as volatile as the Exalted Plains, this proves rather problematic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Father's Land, My Mother's Tongue

*

Fucking elves.

Bad enough that they’ve already spent three frigging days in this shithole, wandering around the Elven Promised Lands or whatever for no apparent reason. Bad enough that frigging Sole-arse has spent the whole time going on and on and on about _‘our people’_ this and _‘our history’_ that, like anyone bloody cares. Bad enough, too, that the sodding Inquisitor trips over her own tongue every time he opens his mouth. _“Oh, Solas, tell me more about all that elven glory,”_ all big eyes and fluttery eyelashes, like some wandering apostate or whatever knows more about her so-called ‘people’ than she does.

It’s all bullshit, innit? Solas has probably spent less time among Proper Elves than even Sera has, but he still talks out of his arse like he knows everything about everything. Utter shite, yeah, but still the Inquisitor swallows it down like candy.

Anyway. Point is, all that crap is bad enough on its own, but of course it’s not enough, is it? Of course they had to go and find some stupid Dalish camp full of self-righteous fucking elves, all frolicking around and passing judgement and spitting shit like _‘shem’_ and _‘flat-ear’_ and all the rest of it, like they have the right to call people shit just because they’re different. Of course they bloody did. Because apparently the Maker hates Sera nearly as much as the frigging elf-gods do.

Probably should’ve seen this coming, to be honest; Lavellan’s been practically vibrating ever since they ran into one of their hunters yesterday. Couldn’t bloody wait to throw herself into the arms of a fresh new clan of Proper Elves, could she? Couldn’t bloody wait to frolic and pass judgement and start spitting shit, could she?

For Sera, it’s a test of patience. Which is kind of a problem, to be honest, because her patience was all but worn out long before they got here, and by the time the first one casts his beady little eyes over her there’s not enough left to fill a thimble.

“You keep odd company, _lethallan_ ,” the elfy prick says to Lavellan when he’s done staring at Sera. Doesn’t even look at her; it’s like she’s not here, not a person, like her stupid ears aren’t just as pointy as his, just as good for bloody hearing.

Lavellan spreads her arms, shakes her head. “ _Ir abelas_ ,” she says in an embarrassed little voice, and Sera doesn’t need to know what the words mean to know what she’s saying, to know that her presence here is something shameful, something to apologise for.

She wants to punch her for that. Not the part where she doesn’t stand up for her; she could take care of herself well enough if she wanted to. The other thing, the frigging apology. Always happens, doesn’t it? People saying sorry on her behalf, trying to make excuses for the way she talks, the way she looks, the things she does, make excuses for _her_. Like it’s so damn hard to shrug and say _“hey, at least she’s useful”_. Wants to punch her, punch all of them, but she doesn’t. Wouldn’t want to cause another ‘incident’ or whatever, would she?

 _Ugh_. Not even been here five frigging minutes, and she’s sick of it.

Dorian touches her arm. Maybe trying to offer a bit of compassion, but she can tell it’s more an effort to keep her in line, restrain her in case she really does get it into her head to take a swing at someone. Tempting, yeah, but not even Sera is that bloody stupid, not when she’s already walking on dangerous ground with Lavellan for some off-colour comment or another.

Still, Dorian’s a good pick for calming her down. It’s hard to be mad at him when he grins that toothy Tevinter grin of his, winking and shaking his head like he secretly understands but has to make a show of supporting the big-breeches Inquisitor. Hard to take it personally from him, like she would from Lavellan or Solas or whoever else.

“Might I suggest taking a deep breath?” he murmurs, leaning in to make it private. “Perhaps counting to ten? Does wonders for the temper.”

Sera growls, rolls her eyes, but doesn’t hit him. “It’s not my frigging temper that needs wonders done to it…”

“No, I’d wager not,” Dorian says with a chuckle. “But perhaps we should try and avoid a scene this time, hm?”

 _Hmph,_ Sera thinks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dorian laughs. Like proper flat-out laughs. It’s infectious, the sound, and she almost manages a smile. “There isn’t any, of course. Isn’t that rather the point with these people? We can’t be seen having fun on sacred ground, now, can we?”

“Right.” She’s still annoyed, though, and doesn’t bother trying to hide it. “Forgot. No fun allowed. Frigging elitist elfy pissbags.”

His smile flickers. Doesn’t disappear, not completely, but he’s too damn good at that empathy thing, at seeing the shit she’s trying to hide, the shit she doesn’t want Lavellan or Solas to see, and breaking through it. _Ugh_ , she thinks again, and twitches out of his reach before he can open his mouth and ruin the moment with his fancy words, that weird shit he does that turns her feelings on their head, makes her soft and stupid. Can’t let him do that. Not in front of them, and definitely not in front of the Dalish.

Tries anyway, doesn’t he? “Sera…”

“Whatever.” Straightens her shoulders, because, yeah, it’s not just him that she’s trying to convince here. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

Her voice isn’t as obedient as her body in moments like this, though, and she’s not nearly so good at making it sound stronger than it is. Can turn her spine to steel without even trying, but her voice wavers and breaks like nobody’s business, and it gives her away. Wishes it wasn’t like that, wishes she could tame it too, turn it hard and soulless like the rest of her. Wishes she didn’t sound so much like she cares.

Shouldn’t, should she? Piss like this, elves and whatever. It shouldn’t get to her, shouldn’t make her angry. Not like she’s the only one, after all; they’re giving Solas the same treatment too, the whole _‘flat-ear’_ bullshit. Sixteen levels of stupid, that, given that he’s probably the elfiest elf she’s ever met. Ridiculous that they’d look at him and see someone like her, look at the two of them together and think they’re the same. And yet, there they go, running off on him just like her, squinting and frowning and trying to make him out, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, the whole stupid show.

The worst part is, Solas doesn’t seem to give a frigging nug’s arse.

Weird, how that makes everything cut even deeper. Weird, how even that makes her feel raw and exposed and awful.

It’s just… it’s not frigging _fair_. Sole-arse and his indifference or whatever. All his _‘elven glory’_ this and _‘our people’_ that and history and heritage and all those other stupid words he’s been spouting non-stop for three days, all this elfy-elf bullshit he’s been filling her head with, and isn’t it supposed to mean something to him too? Shouldn’t he be the first one getting offended? At the very least, surely it should bother him that his own precious people are looking at him like he’s dirt… like he’s _Sera_.

Doesn’t, though, does it? Doesn’t bother him, doesn’t upset or offend him, doesn’t seem to have any effect at all. They’re all shaking their heads, throwing up their hands and spitting _‘flat-ear’_ right in his frigging face, but the self-righteous bastard doesn’t even blink.

 _Andraste_ , she hates him.

Feels like forever before they’re allowed to leave, and of course there’s a frigging catch. Too much to hope for, yeah, that they’d just stop by for a quick ‘hello’ and then move the fuck on. Too much to ask for a lot of things, apparently.

Long story short, the frigging Dalish can’t seem to solve their own bloody problems, and the Inquisition’s getting involved as a personal favour or something. More specifically, _Lavellan_ is getting involved as a personal favour, Dalish to Dalish or whatever, and that means the rest of them are getting dragged into it too, whether they want to it not. She’s got her head in a spin, of course, all _‘blah blah blah Dalish pride’_ and shit like that, like helping them is more important than saving the world. Sodding elves and their sodding priorities.

Dorian, naturally, thinks it’s hilarious. Even calls it _‘quaint’_ , like taking a detour to wander the arse end of nowhere in the middle of a bloody war is just some silly southern quirk.

Solas, presumably, doesn’t think much of anything at all. If he does, he keeps it to himself; best place for it, honestly, and Sera kind of wishes she had his restraint. Wouldn’t surprise her if he was secretly a little conflicted about the whole thing, the part that wants to help his precious people waging war against the part that resents them for the way they look at him, the way they talk about him, for all the stupid things they are.

Must be hard, Sera thinks, feeling that way. Caring about these idiots and not caring about them at the same time. Solas looks down on the Dalish, she knows, just as spitefully as they look down on him, but she can tell he cares too. Can’t turn his back on them like Sera has, can’t ignore the parts of him that speak their language, can’t blind himself to all the things he calls out in her, all the awful stuff inside them both. And, yeah, maybe that’s why he doesn’t let them get to him, lets their words bounce off him. Maybe that’s why he takes their shit and doesn’t react. Self-preservation or something.

It’s easier for Sera, in some ways, wearing everything on the outside, but it’s so much harder too. Her hate has teeth, and it gnaws at her, tears great big chunks out of her insides and twists them into something new and awful. It makes her hurt when they look at her like there’s something wrong with her, makes her seethe when they call her names that shouldn’t matter. Makes it hard not to listen, harder not to hear and know and feel, and when it turns her stupid elfy ears hot and pink, it makes her hate herself so much more than she ever hated them.

She’s angry. Angry at Lavellan for bringing her here in the first place, angry at the Dalish for the way they look at her, the way they talk _about_ her but never _to_ her, the way their words and their faces make her feel. Angry at Dorian for being all quiet and snarky and shit, for playing the peacekeeper a little too well, for making her smile when she wants to snarl and spit and punch people. Angry at Solas for keeping his feelings to himself, keeping his mouth shut, pretending he doesn’t feel anything at all; even if he just went off on another one of his _‘elven glory’_ speeches, at least it’d be something. At least she wouldn’t be the only one feeling things.

Honestly, the cause is a good one. Kill some demons, find some missing idiot, stock up their precious camp with supplies or whatever. It’s all good stuff, and honestly Sera never minds going off the beaten path if it helps people. It’s just that it’s _them_ , and it’s so hard to see them as ‘people’ when they sure as shit don’t see her that way. Anyway, it’s not like they’re doing it out of kindness or compassion, anyway; it’s like they have to do it, like they have to prove themselves, like they have to make some great sweeping gesture or they’re not good enough.

Makes her insides clench, that does, makes her want to snap with her teeth. Makes her feel like she’s in an alienage, spitting on that stupid tree because no matter how hard she tries she just can’t understand why it’s important. 

“Hate this,” she hisses out loud. Wishes she could hold it in like Solas, wishes she didn’t get so full so fast when the bad emotions start to swell, but she does and it’s too frigging heavy for her to keep inside. “All this elfy Dalish bullshit. Hate it. Frigging—”

“Nobody asked for your opinion, Sera,” Solas says, and of course he’s completely calm.

“Oh, don’t you start,” she snaps. “Getting all high and mighty, like you’re better than me. They don’t think so, do they? Your frigging _people_. Far as they’re concerned, you’re exactly the same as me.”

He shrugs, waves a hand, like that’s not important at all. “I did not ask for their opinions either.”

She wants to push him. Antagonise him, maybe, make him lash out so that she’s not the only one losing her temper, not the only one looking stupid. Wants him to show that he does care, that they got to him too. Has to be there, doesn’t it? Deep down inside, underneath all that smug elven glory, it’s got to be killing him that his own frigging people don’t want nothing to do with him. Got to be eating him alive, got to _hurt_ , and there’s nothing in the whole damn world Sera wants more than to find that place and hold it up so everyone else can see it too. Wants to take Lavellan by her stupid Dalish ears and shout, _‘see? they got to him too!’_.

Wants to, yeah, but Dorian’s got his hand on her arm again, and a glint in his eye that says he’d never let her get away with it. Can’t possibly know what she’s thinking, not really, but he knows her well enough to know that she’s thinking about something, and he definitely knows her well enough to know that it’s probably not a good idea. Doesn’t need to say anything, either of them, but his hand and the look on his face stop her as sure as any blade.

“Whatever,” she huffs, and even she isn’t sure which one of them she’s talking to.

Lavellan chimes in, then, because of course she does. “That’s enough,” she says, sharp and Inquisitorial, and Sera hates that Solas doesn’t point out that no-one asked for her bloody opinion either.

“Indeed,” he says instead. “We have work to do here, and it does not serve anyone to be distracted by such pettiness.”

That gets her blood up again. _Petty_ , right. Because anything he doesn’t feel is automatically childish and stupid and whatever. Doesn’t matter than it feels important to her, doesn’t matter that it’s chewing her up. Nope; doesn’t mean anything to _him_ , to _them_ , so of course it’s frigging petty, innit? Always is. Probably always will be, and she hates that almost as much as she hates the elves, almost as much as she hates—

“Now, now.” Dorian, eyes on her fists, white-knuckled and shaking at her sides.

Sera sighs, unclenches. “Pissheads,” she mutters, kicking the ground. “Not worth it.”

“Precisely so.” He gives her an encouraging little pat on the back, though, like he understands how much it costs her to back down like this, like maybe there’s a part of him that wants to agree with her. “Now, then. Chin up, eh? If you behave yourself out here, I’ll treat you to a cup of Cabot’s finest back at Skyhold. How does that sound?”

“Like a bloody cheap bribe,” Sera grumbles.

Dorian laughs again. A proper laugh, loud and genuine, like he did back in the Dalish camp but not so restrained, not so polite. Sera likes that. Almost smiles, even, and that’s saying something.

“Far be it from me to be accused of cheapness,” he chuckles. “Two cups, then, and the chance to beat me at wicked grace.”

Sera cuts a glance at Solas, tries not to let the resentment bubble up too high, tries to keep the scowl on the inside. Harder than it should be; she’s been holding herself in check her whole life, but in moments like this it feels like her hate is bigger than she is, like it’s a demon or something, a twisting writhing horrible thing surging up inside of her, and it takes everything she has to hold it down, to keep it from taking control.

She turns away. Looks up at Dorian instead, and tries real hard to smile.

“Fine,” she says. “But if he mentions the Veil, you’re buying the bloody bottle.”

*

Thankfully, Solas does not mention the Veil.

Doesn’t really help much, though. Couldn’t start with the easy shite, could they? Couldn’t start by tracking down rebellious teenagers or skinning bears or whatever. Oh, no. Had to start with burial grounds and demons and Maker only knows what else. Because apparently Sera’s life isn’t shitty enough right now, is it? Had to start with the bloody demons.

Which, yeah. It’s no secret that she hates demons. No secret that she hates dead things, either, because honestly, who _doesn’t_ hate dead things? But here they are, like it’s a frigging picnic or something, in a frigging burial ground surrounded by frigging demons and tripping over graves filled with dead frigging elves. Nightmare fuel, innit? And, yeah, that’s literal; Sera’s pretty sure she’s had this exact dream at least a dozen times before, and always woke up screaming.

Present company doesn’t help, either. Fighting demons is horrible anyway, but it’s harder than usual without Blackwall or Cassandra around, without their big shiny shields and their battle-cries and the way they make it all look easy. Lavellan is tougher than she looks, even Sera can’t deny that, shouting and charging in with that great big sword of hers, but it’s not the same, and Sera doesn’t feel safe with her.

Never felt safe with her, to be honest, and maybe that is the elf thing again, the way she narrows her eyes and huffs when they’re alone, the way she doesn’t listen, the way her mouth droops all sad-like when Sera says _‘elf’_ like one of her swear-words, the way she’s always biting down on her tongue to keep from saying _‘flat-ear’_. No secret that they’re opposites, no secret that they don’t get along, and yeah, it makes moments like this hard. Difficult to trust a meat-shield that hates you, and hiding behind her just feels like a disaster waiting to happen.

Dorian’s a little better, but he’s nearly as squishy as Sera is. Tries, though, and maybe he has some kind of secret _‘protect the scared idiot’_ pact thing with Blackwall — if they’re even talking to each other this week — because he always sticks real close to her side when there’s no big shieldy Warden to hide behind. He’s not so great with the protective magic, not like Solas, but he does his best, makes the most with the skills he’s got just like she does, and flashes that grin whenever he gets the chance. Helps, yeah, at least as much as he can.

As for Solas… nah, Sera’s not going there. The less said about him and his creepy Veil magic, the bloody better.

It’s a quick fight, or as quick as anyone can realistically hope for. The demons are big, all swollen on the pain of this awful place, but with two mages and an archer who never misses, they go down fast enough, and then it’s just the four of them and the sound of their heavy breathing, creepy and echoey and more than a little sinister.

It’s probably for the best that it ends as quick as it does, because this place isn’t sitting right with Sera at all. It’s like something out of Varric’s middle-of-the-night scary stories, dead bodies and creepy elven history and all that nightmare shite. _Var Bellanaris_ , Lavellan calls it, and even the name gives Sera a headache. Feels wrong, like down in her bones _wrong_ , and thinking about it makes her head spin worse than that Qunari piss Bull talked her into drinking that one time. Ended real bad, that did, but not this. She won’t let it, not in front of Lavellan and Solas, not when there’s dead elves everywhere judging her.

She’s swaying, though, like she’s drunk or hit her head or something, and braces herself against the first solid surface she can find, palms slick with sweat. The earth shifts under her, or at least she thinks it does, and then—

“Sera!”

Sole-arse. Of course it is. He’s not worried, not even a little curious about why she’s stumbling; now, of course, is the moment he finally picks to get angry. Her name sounds like a curse on his tongue, like she’s the most awful person in the world just for losing her footing, and when he grabs her by the arm his grip is Cassandra-strong.

“What’s your problem?” she forces out, doesn’t let him see how uncomfortable she is. “Just lost my balance.”

“You will lose far more than that if you’re not careful.” Sounds like a threat, the way he says it, but she’s smart enough to know that it’s not. A warning, maybe, or something like one. “This is a sacred place, Sera. We must not defile it by disturbing the dead.”

“Right, right.” She twists out of his grip, annoyed, and catches her balance on her own. “Dead frigging elves. More important than the living ones, innit?”

“In this place? Absolutely.” There’s fire in his eyes when he says that, like it means more than either of them can really understand. “We must be mindful here, and _respectful_. A difficult task for you, I know, but nonetheless…”

“Okay. Fine. Whatever.” She throws up her hands, lets him know she gets it, then spends a good few moments trying to shake off the dizziness, the pulse in her brain. “Ugh. Stupid place makes my head hurt.”

He softens when she says that. Like, right away, just full-on stops glaring at her, like she’s said some secret elf-words or something, and his whole face transforms into something completely different. He does that sometimes, turns into something else when he looks at her, stares like maybe he’s seeing something else in her as well, something different and special and, yeah, probably elfy.

He never explains it, but it wouldn’t matter if he did; Sera hates it anyway. Like, really violently hates it, and all the more so in a place like this, this weird creepy graveyard full of demons and dead elves and whatever else, this place that makes her feel bad even without his stupid face making it worse. It’s the last place in Thedas she wants to be at all right now, and it’s definitely the last place in Thedas she wants to be with Elven Glory looking at her like that.

Poised by her side, Dorian clears his throat. Maybe senses her discomfort, or maybe he’s just indulging his own; either way, it gets their attention.

“In any event,” he says, “I’d say we’re done here, wouldn’t you? As fascinating as this place is, I don’t think we should dally any longer than necessary. Even necromancers have their limits, and I’m afraid I reached mine four demons ago.”

Good idea, yeah, but the Inquisitor isn’t as eager to leave this place as the rest of them.

She’s crouched in front of one of the graves, head bowed and a sad look on her face, like she knew the guy, like it’s her own frigging family or something. Might be, for all Sera knows, but she kind of doubts it. She doesn’t know much about Lavellan’s clan or where they come from, but she’s pretty sure it’s far away from here. Can’t be a real proper relative, this poor dead tit, but the look on her face almost makes her wonder.

Typical elf shit, she thinks, a little vindictively. Like to pretend they’re more important than they are, all connected to each other or whatever. Like they’re all feeling each other’s sorrow even when they’re half a frigging world away, even when they’ve never even met. Stupid. Bloody _stupid_.

Kind of hard not to be sympathetic, though, when she’s looking like that, all sad and lonely and shit. Still, this place is making her feel uncomfortable, and that makes it a whole lot easier to cling to the vindictive parts, the parts that don’t want to care. Her head’s still spinning, and Solas is still looking at her like she’s something else, like there’s something important and elfy in her, in the way she’s responding to this place; he’s looking at her like she’s connected too, like she’s like Lavellan, like she ever could be.

Thinking about it just makes her feel worse, and the panic rises up in her as sure as the dizziness, a screaming desperate need to get out of here _right frigging now_. Can’t explain it, doesn’t want to think about it; she just knows that she has to. So, yeah, stupid, but what can she do? Never been one to make nice with creepy things getting inside her head, never been one to deal with scary shit like brave strong clever people do. Doesn’t know how to be brave or strong or clever; she only knows how to panic. Funny, that; it’s about the only thing she does better than anyone.

Doesn’t even think, then. Doesn’t stop to realise that it might be a bad idea, doesn’t do anything at all. Just stalks over to Lavellan’s side and taps her on the shoulder.

“Hey, Inquisitor…”

Lavellan doesn’t even bother to look up. Of course she doesn’t, and if she hears the shakiness in Sera’s voice, she pretends she doesn’t. “Not now, Sera.”

“Right. Sure. You take all the time you need, yeah? But, err—”

“ _Not now_ , Sera.”

It’s a frigging order, the way she says it. A real proper Inquisitor’s order, like Sera’s just some no-name nothing, some frigging servant she’s brought along to do what she’s told and keep her mouth shut. Doesn’t usually bother her, that kind of talk; better to be a servant than a frigging Dalish, and in any case at least the Inquisitor actually has the authority to back up that tone of voice. Supposed to follow orders, isn’t she? Whatever they might think about each other, their relationship is pretty clear that way.

But this isn’t usually; not even close. Sera’s already feeling shitty in here, and the whole stupid thing makes her angrier than it normally would. Angry at her tone, yeah, but it’s more than that; she’s angry at the way Lavellan just flat-out ignores her, the way she doesn’t even glance up to check whether Sera has a reason for interrupting her precious elfy-time or whatever. Doesn’t even think that maybe this place is affecting the other knife-ear too; so far as she’s concerned, they’re so frigging different it’s not even a possibility.

And, well, yeah. Sera gets it, kind of. Grieving, mourning, crying over stupid elves that have probably been dead for twice her lifetime or something. Stupid, sure, but it’s Lavellan’s thing, a Dalish thing or whatever. Makes sense for them, and normally that would be enough; might be okay with that, might even manage ‘respectful’ like Solas said, only Lavellan’s not the only one here now. Not the only elf, sure, but not the only _person_ either, and there are few things in the world Sera hates more than when some self-righteous tit gets so far up their own arse they don’t see other people.

Lavellan’s feeling all elfy-griefy and whatever, and that’s fine, but she’s not the only one getting feelings from this place. She’s not the only one feeling bad, and it’s not fair that she gets to play the _‘they’re my people’_ card, not fair that she gets to insist her feelings matter more than Sera’s just because they’re steeped in history or whatever, just because they’re more _elfy_.

“Fine,” she hisses. “Stay here all frigging day if you want, whining to your ancestors or Creators or whatever, but I’m done.”

Would be all right if she just left it there, just stormed off in a huff, but of course she doesn’t. Not smart enough for that, is she? Sera’s not exactly good at talking things through with words and letting them go; never has been, and there’s too much going on inside her right now to even try to make an exception. Doesn’t stop to think, doesn’t let herself care. So what if she pisses off Lavellan? So what if she pisses off her stupid frigging elven ancestors or whatever? They’re frigging dead; they don’t care!

So, yeah. Instead of just leaving it there, letting it go like she knows she should, instead of doing the smart thing, she lashes out. Spits out a curse, and kicks the stupid frigging gravestone with all her strength.

Stupid. She knows it is. But of course it’s only when it’s done that she realises it’s dangerous too.

The demon’s huge. Like, way bigger than the regular-sized ones they just carved their way through, and given that there’s only one this time instead of a frigging army that’s probably saying something. It bursts out of the grave like the bloody thing’s on fire, and comes at them like… well, like some idiot just disturbed its resting place or something. Funny, how that goes, innit?

“Piss!” Sera howls, and stumbles backwards.

Solas is swearing too, in that fancy elfy language of his; Sera doesn’t recognise the words, doesn’t understand the ‘rhythm of the language’ or whatever he calls it, but she’d knows a good swear-word from any kind of distance. It’s right proper colourful, whatever shite he’s spewing, and when he turns to glare at her it’s with fury deepening every line on his face.

“Did I not warn you to be careful?” he shouts. “Did I not tell you to be careful, to be respectful? This place is _sacred_ , you foolish child!”

“As much as I agree with the sentiment…” Dorian chimes in, swinging his staff like it’s a sword. “I don’t suppose it can wait until we’re not in danger of losing our lives?” The demon takes a swipe at his head, and he ducks. “Just a thought, mind you…”

Solas huffs, clearly annoyed, but he doesn’t argue. “Indeed.”

That’s definitely a good plan, because as well as being frigging giant-sized, the demon’s also proper mad. No surprises there, since it just got woken from its eternal slumber or whatever, but it’s no fun fighting the bloody thing when it’s raking claws at them and shrieking like the whole damned world is coming down.

The fight isn’t super-long, but it’s real messy, and it doesn’t end clean for anyone. The demon fights like a sack full of cats, and it’s still howling even as it dies. Points for that, Sera supposes, and for its enthusiasm; they’re all a little bruised and battered by the time the fight is over, even fancy-pants Dorian.

Inquisitor’s got the worst of it, of course. She’s the meat-shield, after all, or as close to one as they’ve got without Blackwall or Cassandra. Probably some irony in that, Sera thinks; she was the one being all respectful and elfy and shite, but what good did it do her in the end? Her armour’s all dented and dinged and dirty, but there’s not much blood and nothing looks serious. Small miracle, that, and the dozen or so surface injuries don’t seem to slow her down at all.

Bit of a shame, that, because she’s already lunging at Sera even before the demon’s fully dead.

Sera’s got a few cuts and bruises herself, not least of all because the demon apparently wasn’t as stupid as she was; it recognised the idiot who woke it, and got a good swipe or two in before Lavellan distracted it with her war cries and her giant sword. Nothing serious, but there’s a bit of blood and a bit of pain, and Lavellan’s really not making it better with the way she grabs her by the arms and shakes her until her teeth rattle.

“By the Creators, Sera! What were you _thinking_?”

“It was rather foolish,” Dorian agrees, leaning on his staff and breathing hard; he’s got a gash across his pretty forehead, and the ends of his moustache look a little singed. “Even by your unique standards.”

Sera glares at them both. “It’s not like I bloody meant to, is it?”

“Well, what _did_ you mean to do?” Lavellan shouts, and shakes her again. “I know our history means little to you, but did you ever stop to think that it might mean something to _me_? Are you really so selfish, so disrespectful that you’d disturb the dead just to prove some childish little point?”

“Enough.”

Salvation, kind of, but from the most unexpected place. Solas, yeah, and he’s glaring at them both like they’re as much to blame as each other.

Weird as anything, that, even just the idea that this might be anything other than entirely Sera’s fault. Weirder still, the way he steps between them, all level-headed and even, like he’s not every bit as mad as Lavellan is, like he didn’t yell just as loudly when it happened. They all know he’s angry too, that he has to be, but still he’s keeping his cool, expression steady and neutral just like back in the stupid Dalish camp, just like the way he pretended he didn’t hear them call him _‘flat-ear’_.

Lavellan stares at him. “She—”

“Enough, _lethallan_.” Again, just as gentle, but with the hint of an edge this time. “We have defiled this place too much already. Let us not anger these spirits further.”

 _Spirits, my arse,_ Sera thinks. _Sodding demons, they are._

Knows better than to say it out loud, though, and in any case it works. Stupid as anything, the way Lavellan eats out of his hands, but Sera supposes she should’ve seen it coming. Not like this is the first time something like this has happened, after all.

So, yeah, Lavellan backs down. Gives Sera a final violent shake, mostly for her own pleasure, then shoves her away. “As you say, _hahren_ ,” she says, eyes on Solas.

Disgusting, the way they do that, falling over each other just because they’re both frigging elves. They come from different places, and in any other situation Lavellan would be leading the frigging march against Solas, leading the pack of slavering idiots calling him names and painting him the same colours as Sera. Anywhere else, anywhere but here and now and Inquisition, she sure as shit wouldn’t be calling him _hahren_.

Wouldn’t mind it so much if either of them bloody acknowledged it, but of course they don’t. It’s to be expected from Solas, she supposes, but Lavellan’s a different story, and Sera hasn’t failed to notice the way she didn’t defend either of her so-called ‘inner circle’ from the disdain of the Dalish. 

Makes her fingers itch again, makes her want to throw punches or arrows or worse. It’s probably for the best, then, that Dorian reads the mood again and cuts in before she gets the chance. He reads her just as well as he did back there with the Dalish, catches the violence rising in her and takes her by the arm, grip strong but steadying as he hauls her away.

“There we go,” he says, all sweetness and sarcasm; hard to tell who he’s talking to, but she’s the one he’s looking at, and when he offers another one of his playful little winks it’s definitely not aimed at the Inquisitor. “Now, then, how about we take this somewhere more civilised, hm? Somewhere warm and tropical, with any luck, and ideally with fewer demons. Horrible things, demons…”

“Bloody right,” Sera grumbles, keeping her voice low.

Dorian pats her on the shoulder, a little harder than normal, like maybe he’s a little angry with her too. Probably is, come to think of it; even with all his fancy fireballs and shit, his robes are all messed up, torn in some places and bloody in others, and that’s reason enough for him to hold grudges. Probably blames her for the mess, and sulking because they’re a hundred leagues away from the nearest cleaning service. Fair enough, Sera supposes, but she can’t quite suppress a touch of annoyance; messed-up clothes or not, he’s supposed to be on her side.

Lavellan insists on checking the other graves before they leave, so Dorian takes Sera into his own hands without waiting for an invitation. He’s forceful, but putting on airs of his usual joviality, guiding her out of the graveyard-burial-ground-whatever with a couple of pointed shoves. Safer for everyone, that, and Sera doesn’t miss the quickness in his own stride; he’s almost as happy to be out of that stupid place as she is.

Outside, Sera gulps down air like cheap liquor. Didn’t realise exactly how dizzy she was until the feeling lifts, until the sun is back and the ground is solid again, until she’s _out_. Dorian watches her, but knows better than to say anything.

Sera grumbles to herself, nonsense sounds that don’t really mean anything. Crouches on the ground, rips up bits of grass and chunks of dirt and tosses them over her shoulder. No real reason for that; she’s not stupid enough to think it’ll get the anger out of her system or anything, but she needs something to keep her hands busy, something to distract her before she loses what little control she has left. She wants to break something, or strangle someone, or… or… or frigging _something_ , the more violent and bloody the better. Almost wishes there were more demons just so she could rip them apart.

But no. None of that, yeah? Dorian’s here, tutting and shaking his head and looking like a bloody schoolteacher or something, and Sera knows she wouldn’t stand a frigging chance if she tried something like that. So she takes it out on the ground instead, because apparently that’s acceptable now that they’re out. Can’t kick the ground they’re buried under, the frigging elves, but it’s okay to tear up the ground that once ran red with their blood. Nothing sacred in that, right? Whatever.

“Frigging sodding pissing elfy rubbish…” she mutters.

“Yes, yes,” Dorian sighs. “Let it all out. No doubt our dear dashing Inquisitor will insist on a personal apology to each and every one of her new friends, so be sure to get all your impotent aggression out while you can.” He chuckles, low and without humour, and Sera doesn’t even bother to glare at him. “But do try to leave some of the grass alive, hm? It gives the place a lovely splash of colour…”

Sera swears, very loudly, and chucks a pebble at his head.

*

Predictably, the elves don’t take the news very well.

Kind of goes without saying, that, and of course it takes about ten seconds for them to start crowing for Sera’s head. Don’t give her a chance to explain, don’t give her a chance to try and talk things through; heck, they don’t even give her a chance to blurt out the apology Lavellan’s been drilling into her head ever since it happened. No chance for anything at all, they come at her like she’s the sodding demon, like she’s worse than Coryphallus, like she’s worse than anything. Doesn’t matter that it was an accident, doesn’t matter if she’s sorry; they don’t want to hear it, and they sure as shit won’t listen.

Should’ve expected that, she supposes. Kind of did expect it, if she’s honest, but it still burns worse than the demon-scratches when the Keeper turns to Lavellan with anger in his eyes and says, “You are welcome here, _lethallan_ , but she is not.”

Shouldn’t hurt like it does. She knows these pricks, knows how they think, how they work. Should’ve expected it and it shouldn’t bloody hurt. Shouldn’t make her feel small, pathetic; shouldn’t make her feel frigging worthless. Shouldn’t make her want to cry, either, but it does.

Stupid, innit? Wanting to cry over a bunch of whiny self-righteous pissheads who probably don’t know their arses from their elbows, who think they’re better than everyone else just because they live out in the middle of nowhere, just because they talk in riddles and read history books and know what words mean and whatever. Stupid as anything, wanting to cry over those idiots, and she knows it.

Sera hates the Dalish. Like, really properly hates them, and that hate carries her real far on the few occasions she’s forced to talk to them. She hates everything they stand for, everything they believe, all the little ways they think their brand of faith makes them better than other people, all the not-so-little ways they think it gives them the right to make nameless nobodies like Sera feel bad about themselves. She hates everything they are, almost more than she hates anyone or anything in the whole frigging world. Maybe even more than she hates Corphyshit. Maybe not, because that’d be stupid too, but right now, at this moment, it’s real damn close.

Stupid, innit? She hates them so much, but still the way they look at her feels like a knife between the ribs.

Doesn’t stick around long enough to let them see that. Sure as shit doesn’t stick around long enough for the frigging Inquisitor to see it, to notice the tears sparking behind her eyes and say _‘I told you so’_. Knows that she would, or imagines she knows it; makes the hurt bearable when she can pretend the Inquisitor is a tit as well, pretend that she’s childish and petty and stupid. Makes it easier to turn around, face away from all those awful faces, all their awful words, awful names, all the awful things they make her feel.

“Fine.” Comes out real weird, like a glass with a crack down the middle. “Fine, yeah? Frigging _fine_. Don’t need your lot, do I? Never did, never will. So you can just… you can…”

But the crack in her voice shatters before she gets the chance to finish, before she can put all the hate into words, all the pain into something tangible, before she can make her feelings matter as much as theirs. Shatters, turns her voice to water and weakness and whimpers, and it leaves her sounding like a child, like some angry little sullen thing who doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously, who doesn’t have a damn thing worth hearing.

Worse, yeah, because that’s how she feels right now too. As worthless and worldless as they want her to be.

So, yeah, she storms off. Leaves them standing there, maybe watching her or maybe not; she doesn’t care. Lavellan and Solas and all those fucking Dalish fuckers. Even Dorian with his smiles and his winking and all the little ways he makes it less awful. Can’t do nothing for her now, and she wouldn’t take it even if he could.

Keeps walking until she can’t walk any more, until the little sort-of river spills into a proper big river, wide enough that she has to squint to see the other side. Little river, big river; stupid, the way people insist there’s a difference. Like anyone even cares if it’s a _proper_ river; it’s all just water in the end, innit, and the sight of it makes her want to dive in up to her stupid elfy ears and never come back out.

Doesn’t, obviously, but it’s real tempting.

Instead, she settles for screaming. Because, yeah, why not? She’s far enough away from the others, from Lavellan and the Dalish and all that stupid shite, far enough away from Solas and the way he softens when he looks at her, far enough away from Dorian and the way he makes her feel better just by winking and smiling and saying stupid stuff she doesn’t understand. Far enough away from every stupid idiot who looks at her like she’s touched, like she’s not right, like she doesn’t deserve to be here just because she’s different, just because she’s _her_. Far enough away from everyone and everything and yeah, yeah, _yeah_ , she screams. Screams like she’s earned it, because she bloody well has.

Wears herself out real fast, but she doesn’t care. No-one here to see her break down this time, right? So why should she pretend it’s not getting to her? Why should she pretend her voice isn’t giving out? Her legs go out from under her too, and she doesn’t hide that either; the dirt and sand are a whole lot harder than they look, contact jolting through her whole body as she hits her knees, but whatever, right? Whatever.

Takes the impact, the grunt and the pain, and tells herself she doesn’t care. Water against her knees, her legs, real cold and real wet; it seeps in through the rips and tears in her clothes, soaks her skin, and she tells herself she doesn’t care. Sand sticking to her skin, her fingers, her face; it gets in everywhere, just like the water, and she tells herself she doesn’t care. Her lungs give out too, and then her head; the screams turn to tears real quick after her voice goes, and again and again and again she tells herself she doesn’t care.

Fucking elves.

Fucking Dalish and their fucking ‘respect the dead’ demon-haunted burial shite. Fucking Lavellan and her feelings or whatever. Fucking Solas and the way he looks at her, the way he sees things in her that won’t ever exist. Fucking demons and the blood on her clothes, on Dorian’s clothes, the way his smile ran away. Fucking Exalted Whatevers and their fucking history and heritage and who fucking cares? Fucking elves, fucking world, fucking… 

Fucking _everything_.

*

She stays there for a very long time, hissing and snarling and hating.

Doesn’t count the time, because who frigging cares? It’s not like they’d miss her anyway, and she’s so full up on bitterness and resentment that it honestly might be better if they never find her at all. Just leave her here, yeah, forget she was ever a part of the Inquisition, forget she even existed. Better for them, for sure, and probably better for her as well. There’s worse places, right? If she’s going to wither away into nothing, there’s worse places to do it than here.

That’s too much to ask for, though. If they forgot about her, who would they have to blame when shit like this happens?

It was an accident. A stupid frigging accident, and that was all it took for those pissheads to turn on her. Like they were planning it the whole time, just waiting for an excuse to spit on the flat-ear with the big mouth and the bad attitude, like they cared more about kicking her out of their precious Dalish camp than they did about the dead elf or whatever that she disturbed.

Which, yeah. That’s kind of the punchline right there, because honestly, she _is_ sorry about that. Don’t need to be bloody Dalish to know that messing with the dead is bad and wrong and stupid, and even if she hadn’t realised it before, the bloody demon made for a pretty good lesson, didn’t it? Doesn’t blame them for being mad about that, she really doesn’t, but it was an _accident_.

That place messed with her head, got her all mixed-up and dizzy and angry and… well, yeah, stupid. Not denying that; might have even said it out loud if they’d given her a chance. But is it really such an unforgivable thing? Is it really so frigging awful, getting overwhelmed by a place, getting bit too angry in a given moment, a bit too dizzy and a bit too stupid and a bit too whatever? Shouldn’t be the end of the world, should it? Shouldn’t make people turn around and shake you, yell at you and throw you away like last week’s rubbish. Shouldn’t make them spit in your face and call you names and treat you like you’re frigging worthless.

Sera _is_ worthless. She knows that already. Doesn’t need some fancy-pants elfy-elves telling her so, doesn’t need them throwing stones and stringing her up and making out like she’s some kind of demon. Doesn’t need their heritage and their history and their big words. Doesn’t need those knife-ears that cut so damn deep when they’re all pointing towards her.

There’s dirt and sand sticking to her fingers, but she ignores it. Reaches up to touch her stupid ears, remind herself that they’re there, that she can’t escape them no matter how far she runs, how far the river flows. Hates them now, just like she always does.

She runs her hands along the edges, first one and then the other. Always makes her spine twitch, sensitive and shivery on both sides, and she hates that too. Hates that they make her feel things, hates that her body always responds. Hates how sharp they are, the points pressing into her palm, the edges too smooth against her fingers. Hates everything about them, frigging everything, and she wishes she could just get rid of them once and for all. Easy enough, right? Just pull out a knife and cut them off as simple as when she cuts her hair. A quick _‘one, two, three’_ , a bit of blood, and it’d be over. _Over_ , and she’d finally be free.

Worth the pain, for sure. Worth the blood, the mess, worth anything to stop them from looking at her like that. And, hey, even if it doesn’t stop them, even if it’s still not enough, at least she wouldn’t have to hear the names they call her.

Never be like them. Never could, never would. Doesn’t even want to be, and she hates that it still hurts. Hates that it’s not enough to know who she is, what she is, where she comes from, hates that it’s not enough to know herself when they all act like they know her better. Hates that she can’t escape it, the way they look just like her, the way _she_ looks just like _them_. Not the same, won’t ever be the same, but their ears are just as sharp, and she knows they make them shiver too. Can’t hide from the parts that look the same, the parts that hide the parts that aren’t.

Can’t hide from herself, either. Can’t deny the places inside of her that wonder, the moments when she looks into the mirror and wonders what her face might look like with ink on it, the moments when her own name sticks to her tongue and she wonders if it might like the taste of other words instead, _lethallan_ and _hahren_ and—

“ _Da’len_.”

Sera doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t need to; she’d know that stupid voice anywhere. “Piss off, Sole-arse.”

He doesn’t, of course. That’d be too much to ask for, that, wouldn’t it? She can hear him behind her, maybe ten paces or so, and though he doesn’t make any move to leave at least he doesn’t come any closer. Trying to be polite, maybe, or else he’s just scared she’ll turn around and fill him with arrows if he tries anything. Like she couldn’t do that right now if she wanted. Like she’s not halfway tempted already. Anyway, whatever the reason, he doesn’t get up in her personal space, and so she doesn’t dismember him.

For now.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Actually sounds a little regretful, the way he says that, or as close as she’s ever heard him sound. “However, if you require some privacy…”

“Require you not being here,” she mutters, annoyed. “Inquisitor send you? Wanted to make sure I’m not defiling more graves? Well, I’m not, so you can go now. And don’t let the demons hit you on the way out.”

Solas tries to chuckle, but he’s not as good as Dorian, and it sounds all flat and weird. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you.” Drops the act, and sighs. “I simply thought you might like to talk.”

“With _you_?” she blurts out before she can stop herself. Then, realising that’s not the right question, “About what?”

She hears him shrug, the rustle of fabric and the huff of breath. “Anything you have a mind to.”

Evasive as anything, that, but she appreciates the way he doesn’t get all pretentious and _isn’t it obvious_ and all that stupid shite. Would’ve expected that from him, especially since they both know what he’s thinking, but apparently it really is politeness or something, because he’s treading real carefully around her, like he actually cares whether he upsets her or not, and maybe not just because she might stick him with arrows.

“Don’t got a mind to anything,” she says, but it’s hard to keep the quaver out of her voice. “And shouldn’t you be off with your _lethan_ … _latha_ … with the Inquisitor and your stupid Dalish friends, anyway?”

“I would not call them my friends, any more than you would call them yours. You said it yourself, Sera: so far as the Dalish are concerned, you and I are no different.”

Doesn’t say the other part, though, the part where it’s not much fun being a flat-ear in a Dalish camp once the _other_ flat-ear’s been kicked out. She wonders how much of their disdain he had to choke down before he gave up and came after her, how far they had to push him that he would choose to seek out her company rather than keep theirs.

“Eating you alive, yeah?” Sera mutters, tactless as ever. “Bet you were right lost without me taking all their shit for you.”

“You give me too little credit.” Doesn’t properly deny it, though, does he? “Unlike you, Sera, I prefer to leave of my own volition _before_ I outstay my welcome. In this case… well, I often find that the Dalish are not receptive to what I have to say, and these were no different. Thus…”

“What? You thought _I’d_ be more ‘receptive’ to your shite?”

“Not at all.” He’s smiling, though; she can hear it. “I simply wished to see if you were all right.”

Hating herself for it, knowing that she’s falling into his trap, Sera turns to face him. “You what?”

“I am quite certain you heard me.” Definitely smiling, all smug and pretentious and whatever. “But if you would hear it again: I simply wished to see if you were all right. As crude as you are, Sera, and true as it is that we clash more often than we agree, I flatter myself that I know your intentions, and I do not believe you meant any harm in Var Bellanaris.”

“Oh yeah?” Huffs a laugh, cold and bitter, but it takes more effort than she’d ever admit. “Because you ‘know me’ or some shite, yeah? Not because of the great big bloody demons taking pieces out of us. Nah, got to be your _elfy intuition_ , right?”

He sighs, but doesn’t rise to the bait. Probably noticed how close to the edge she is, maybe even knows that she’s been sort-of crying for a while, because he looks real close to sympathetic, like he’s feeling sorry for her, like she needs his frigging pity. She hates that, really hates it; makes her want to take a swing at him, or point her bow in his face or something, just to prove that she’s stronger than he thinks she is, that she’s better than the weird elven whatever he thinks he sees when he looks at her.

Doesn’t do any of that, though. No swinging, no bowstring, no nothing. If he can be all restrained and shite, then so can she. Hunches there instead, arms crossed, glaring, lets him know she’s not afraid to be feral.

“Sera.” His voice his soft, but his eyes are hard when she looks up and finds them. “I thought you might wish to discuss what you felt there.”

“What, weird and creeped out?” She tries to laugh, but the sound breaks like water on rocks. “It was a frigging burial ground, you daft tit! You know? Dead elves and demons and weird creepy shit everywhere? What was I supposed to feel?”

He sits down. Stays where he is, well out of reach, and she can tell it’s a deliberate thing, a pointed gesture. Making a show of respecting her personal space or something, like he actually understands what it means to someone like Sera, someone small and stupid, someone who’s spent her whole life getting kicked out of places because her ears are too pointy or not pointy enough, like he really gets what it means to be throat-deep in elfy bullshit after three frigging days wandering around the Elven Promised Land listening to elves talk about elves and elves and elves. Like he has any idea how frigging _exhausting_ all that is. Like he could ever understand.

Doesn’t really matter, she supposes, whether he does or doesn’t; it’s still a mark of respect, the way he keeps his distance. Probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for her in ages, and how frigging hilarious that it comes from him? Solas can be really hands-on when he wants to be, and she can tell that he’s feeling it now, that part of him wants to get close, get right up in her face and seek out those hidden elfy secrets or whatever; it’s probably killing him to keep his distance like this, but he does it anyway, because he knows that she’s more comfortable that way, because even if he doesn’t properly understand, he still gets that she needs it, that she can’t bear to have him near her when they’re talking like this.

“I don’t know,” he says after a moment, like she actually asked a question worth answering. “Why don’t you tell me? We have fought demons together countless times, and faced the dead as well. And yet, here, among the—”

“You say ‘elves’, and I shaft you right between the eyes.”

“As you wish.” Just like that. Must really be feeling sorry for her, if he’s letting her call the shots like this. “If the issue makes you uncomfortable…”

“Well, yeah. Of course it does.” Shakes her head, because really, who needs this shit spelled out to them? “Who _doesn’t_ get uncomfortable sitting around talking about dead elves? It’s not frigging normal.”

“I see.” Kind of hilarious, the way he says that, like he really is getting his head around this shite for the first time in his stupid life, like he really had no idea that some people might not think it’s fun to talk about creepy demon-infested graveyards. “In that case, you have my apologies. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I was simply… curious.”

“Curious. About me.” It’s a trap, and a really obvious one. Sera sees it coming from a thousand leagues away but her stupid mouth is quicker than her brain. Knows he’s waiting for her to ask, just looking for an opening to talk more, but still she can’t stop herself. “Why?”

“You are an enigma.” Sounds so simple when he puts it like that. Simple, or possibly offensive; it’s hard to tell with him. “You deny your heritage with such violence, such passion… and yet, in moments like these, you find that you cannot escape its influence. You are drawn to it, seemingly against your will, taken in by the memories of a people you claim to hate. It is… truly, Sera, it is remarkable.”

Hurts more than she’d admit, the way he says shite like that, the way he makes it sound so frigging normal when it’s exactly the opposite. Makes her lungs go tight, the way he tramples down everything she is, everything that matters to her, just shoves it all to the side and makes like it’s not important, like she’s elfy anyway, like she can’t turn away from the pisshead fuckers who turned away from _her_ first. Like she wanted it this way, like she—

It’s not fair. It’s not fair and it’s not right, and she won’t let it stand, won’t let him decide what she is and what she isn’t, won’t let him tell her what parts of her matter, what draws her to what and what she’s allowed to be taken in by. He doesn’t get to decide whether she’s remarkable, and he sure as shit doesn’t get to decide whether she’s elfy, whether all those dead bones and demons mean something to her or not. He doesn’t get to do that. No-one does.

“No.” Her voice breaks again, a shatter in a crack just like back at the Dalish camp, but this time she refuses to care. “It’s not frigging _remarkable_.”

“I beg to differ,” he says, because, yeah, apparently he really doesn’t get. Not at all. Might make her cry, if it didn’t make her so bloody angry. “You do yourself an injustice, Sera, turning away from your potential as you do. The blood flows in you regardless of your personal feelings on the matter. Indeed, perhaps it flows all the more potently because of them. You fight against your nature, resist it with everything you have, everything you believe yourself to be, but it is no coincidence that the loss and pain at Var Bellanaris affected you as strongly as it did. It is no coincidence that you—”

“Shut it!” She’s not asking, and she’s sure as shit not being polite. It’s a warning, really, because she’s not messing around one little bit here, and there will be blood if he keeps this up. “It’s none of your business what I do, what I am, what I… what I’m _not_. Got nothing to do with you or your frigging history. You don’t get to come to me with your _‘curious’_ and _‘remarkable’_ and all your pissing elfy-elf bullshit, and expect me to swallow it because it means something. You don’t get to decide what means piss, and you don’t get to decide what means piss to _me_.” Getting louder now, fierce and angry, and it feels good to have a target. “You don’t get to make me into something I don’t want to be, just because it fits better with you.”

Solas sighs. “Are you certain it is not you who is attempting to do that?” He’s not trying to get her worked up again, she can tell, but it’s working pretty well just the same. “You _are_ an elf, Sera, whether you wish to be or not. Your ears will not vanish simply because you want them to.”

Sera flushes hot, hates that it’s probably lighting those stupid ears right up, hates that it makes them more visible, more frigging obvious. Hates that Solas can see right through her, can see to the parts of her that wants to cut them off, hates that he’s the one who’s here right now, that out of everyone he’s the one trying this shit, looking at her like she’s some broken-down thing he has to put back together, like it’s his responsibility or something just because they both wear the same stupid ears.

“Piss off,” she says. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“No? They call me the same names they call you, do they not? And yet I do not renounce who I am for their sakes.”

Sera doesn’t know what that means, _renounce_ , and she doesn’t much care either. “Whatever, elfy. You do your shit, I do mine. Different doesn’t mean wrong, yeah?”

Another sigh. Still pitying, but closer to sad. “Sera, the world is not as simple as you would make it.”

“Can be,” she growls, dangerous. “Frigging will be, soon as you idiots stop trying to make it more complicated.”

 _Maker_ , she hates this. Hates the way he looks at her, the way he talks to her, the way his voice never goes up. Hates that she’s getting more and more worked up and he’s just getting calmer and calmer. Hates that, even now, the guilt’s cutting into her like a frigging knife because her first thought was _Maker_ and not _Creators_ or whatever other bullshit those elfy idiots would go for. Hates that she can’t just do things or think things or feel things, hates that there’s always someone out there telling her that it’s wrong, that it’s bad, that _she’s_ wrong and bad. Hates that there’s a part of her that believes them.

“It is not my intention to complicate things for you,” Solas is saying, like that helps even a tiny bit. “I simply wish to—”

“I don’t _care_.” Keeps her voice low and quiet and all that, as close to his as she can, because if she doesn’t she’ll start screaming again. “Why don’t you people get it? You expect me to sit down and listen every time you open your frigging mouths, but when I have something to say, suddenly it’s _‘oh, your opinion doesn’t matter’_ or _‘what does she know? she’s not really one of us’_.”

“That is—” He stops himself before he finishes, though, like he can see the truth in what she’s saying, at least so far as the frigging Dalish go. “I see. In that case, forgive me.”

“You’re not the one that needs it.” Surprises them both, that does, because until she said it she was honestly kind of thinking that he idd. “At least you mean well or whatever. At least you’re not…”

Stops, shakes her head. Wants to shrug it off, say _‘whatever’_ and go back to staring into the river, but she can’t. Solas is looking at her like he’s waiting, like he wants more, expects more, and Sera doesn’t know that she can give it to him. He does that all the time, gives her that look, all hopeful and expectant; it’s just like back at the stupid Var Bell-Whatever, that stupid burial ground, and she hates it now just like she hated it then. Whatever it is he thinks he sees, it’s not her. She’s not that, can’t be that, and he doesn’t even care that she doesn’t want to be.

Makes the anger surge in her again, the violence and the hate; it’s hotter and sharper than before, and a whole lot more dangerous because she’s not alone now, because he’s here too. Doesn’t like letting her violence spill over onto other people; it’s hers and it should stay that way, but she can feel it under her skin, white-hot pulses of hate and rage, and she knows that she’ll do more than just yell at him if he keeps pushing her. Just like in that place, that Var Whatever, she feels it in her bones, in her blood.

Maybe he feels it too, because for once he actually backs down. “I can see you have a great deal on your mind.”

Doesn’t apologise for being the one to put it there, though, does he?

“Bloody right.” Closes her eyes, breathes, tries not to think about how everything’s turning red. “Look, you can stay if you want. But if you do, I’ll punch you.”

Not really a threat, that, and she can tell that he doesn’t take it that way. He can see the subtle shift in her, the way she’s inching towards a loss of control, knows that she’s telling him this for his sake, not for hers. He’s good at that, honestly; for all the ways she hates him, he’s one of the few who never misunderstand her, never misinterpret what she’s trying to say. Never had one of those blank looks from him, never had one of those awkward giggles or uncomfortable shoulder-pats or any of that other shit that really means, _‘oh, Sera, you’re so weird’_. Not from him. Strange, that, what with all the differences between them, all the bitterness and resentment and whatever, but there it is, and here it is again now; he still gets it, still gets _her_ , still listens and understands what she means in a moment like this.

“Well, then,” he says. “Such being the case, perhaps I should take my leave after all. Far be it from me to outstay my welcome…”

Sera actually laughs at that. “Sure, elfy. Far be it from _you_.”

Solas quirks a brow. Sighs again, obviously, but he doesn’t call her out on her attitude. She can tell that a part of him wants to, but apparently he’s smart enough to understand that it would be pointless; for all the little ways that he does understand her, or at least doesn’t _not_ -understand her, they’re still a thousand worlds apart, and they’ll never have a conversation like this without it ending badly. It’s just too far away from who they are, who both of them are, and since he’s the one with the patience, the compassion, he’s always got to be the one who gives in.

“As you say,” he says, all manners and politeness and none of those unspoken things. “I trust you can find your way back to camp on your own, when you are finished here?” Nice of him not to say _‘when you’re done sulking’_ , Sera thinks, and almost brightens. “The Inquisition’s camp, that is. I cannot imagine that the Dalish would approve of you returning to theirs, even with the best of intentions. They are…” He trails off for a second, offers a sad sort of half-shrug. “Well. You know what they are as well as I do. They do not take kindly to mistakes, and forgiveness for an indiscretion like this is… well, to call it ‘unlikely’ would be generous.”

“Anything’s bloody generous with them,” Sera grumbles. “Arseholes, the lot of them.”

Still, she appreciates it more than she’ll ever say that he doesn’t leap to their defence, that he lets her get out her frustrations, her hatred, that maybe there’s a part of him that doesn’t disagree, that maybe that same part of him might almost be a little bit on her side. Not completely — because, yeah, that’d never happen — but a little bit. Enough that he can halfway admit, without actually saying the words or anything, that maybe the Dalish really are pissballs, that maybe they really are self-righteous arses who don’t listen, who hate everyone who isn’t one of them.

Not completely, yeah, but Solas is the one who yelled at her in the first place, the one who got up in arms back in Var Whatever with his _‘respect the dead’_ this and _‘be careful’_ that. First one to yell at her, and the first one to step in and stop it when Lavellan took over. And, okay, if she thinks about it long enough and hard enough, maybe it isn’t the worst thing in the world that he’s the one coming to her now. At the very least, he’s the one who knows what he’s talking about, and it means a whole lot more coming from him than it would from Dorian. Means a lot that even the elfiest elf of them all thinks that sometimes his people are shits.

“A fair point,” he says. It’s probably the only kind of out-loud agreement she’ll ever get out of him, and she takes it with a huff. “In any case, I will leave you to your thoughts. Try to stay out of trouble, though, if you can. Again, I realise this is a difficult task for you, but…” He spreads his arms. “Should anything unfortunate happen to you, I fear the blame will fall to me. I am, after all, the fool who let you out of my sight…”

“All the more reason to get in trouble, innit?” Sera says with a smirk. “Get you in trouble too. Double the fun, yeah?”

Solas massages his temples, grimaces audibly. “You are not an easy person to treat kindly, Sera,” he says, like that’s not the whole frigging point.

“Prefer it that way,” she huffs. “Keeps elfy pissheads like you and those Dalish pricks out of my business. Better off without that kind of ‘compassion’, you know?”

He sighs again, but doesn’t bother to argue. Probably getting bored with this now, daydreaming about a warm fire and a cup of tea or whatever. Still, though, can’t let her have the last word, and when he does speak again, he does it in frigging elven, just to piss her off that little bit more.

“ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” he says, enunciating real carefully, like he’s making a point with those words she doesn’t know. “ _Dareth shiral_.”

Sera, naturally, responds in her own preferred language, namely by offering a flip of her middle finger and a few of her favourite off-colour phrases. Insults, as many as she can get out, crude and cruel and hateful. Makes sure to really hammer home just how much she hates his words, his language, his frigging face. Makes sure he sees how much she hates the way he doesn’t hate her, the way he thinks he’s helping when he’s pulling her apart from the inside, turning what she is into what he thinks she should be. Makes sure to show him just how much she hates his blindness, his arrogance, the way he doesn’t see it for what it is, doesn’t see how much it hurts, the fact that it probably wouldn’t matter even if he did. She hates him so much right now, and she makes damn sure that he sees all of it.

Weird, then, that when he turns to leave, he’s smiling.

*

She follows the coast.

Has to, really. All that sitting around just gets her deeper and deeper into her own stupid head. And that… well, it’s not good company, is it? Whispering words she can’t quite reach, elfy-elf bullshit itching and scratching just below the surface, places she can’t find, can’t see, can only vaguely feel. Like a kind of torture, yeah, and she’s not supposed to care, not supposed to be thinking about it at all now that Solas is gone, now that she’s alone.

Should be easy to block it out all by herself with no-one around to remind her of what she’s supposed to be, what it’s supposed to mean. Should be quiet in there now, quiet and empty like in the tavern after dark, like six mugs down, the kind of not-thinking and not-feeling that comes with staring at the ceiling, dizzy and drunk and content.

Should be, yeah. But it’s not. And her head won’t bloody _shut up_.

So, yeah, she gets up. Dusts off her knees, for all the good it does, and follows the coast. Keeps her eyes on the river, wide and huge and sparkling, because watching the water makes it easier to ignore the other shit, and counting out her steps keeps her from drowning in all those thoughts. No Solas around to punch or threaten, and no frigging Dalish either; the only person she’d hurt if she lost control is herself, and that’s just stupid. No sense in busting her own head over everyone else’s problems, everyone else’s frigging ideals. No sense in that at all, and she’s got more important things to worry about. Like frigging Coryphenarse, for example, and that whole ‘hole in the sky’ thing, the reason she signed up for this shit in the first place.

It’s about the only reason she’s still here at all, to be honest. Coryphefish, the end-of-the-world stuff, all of it. It’s no secret to anyone that she and Lavellan don’t get along at the best of times, but Sera has skills that the Inquisitor doesn’t, and she can reach the places that Varric can’t. Ever asked a dwarf to pick a locked box on a high shelf? Yeah, that’s why they’ve got Sera. Simple enough, most of the time, and it’s not like she’d ever let her opinion of some daft prick get in the way of a good job or a just cause. Besides, at least Lavellan doesn’t beat the little people who work for her, and that puts her above at least a dozen others Sera could name.

Anyway. The bloody point is, there’s more important shite to worry about than who’s the elfiest of them all. And it’s kind of really important that Sera gets out of her stupid head and starts remembering that.

The river’s good for remembering what matters. Water’s clean and pretty, and it stretches on nearly forever; she can make out the other shore, but only if she squints, and that makes her feel weirdly calm. Got a nice sound to it, too, a rhythmic sort of pulse, and she likes the way it laps at her feet when she gets too close.

Nature, sure, but not the stupid kind. Not, like, proper nature, is it? Not like trees and grass and all that shite that cuts a little too close to feelings of what she’s supposed to enjoy, what proper elves enjoy. Doesn’t, does she? Hates that kind of nature, would probably hate it even if she was frigging Dalish. The trees make her sneeze when she gets too close, and the grass itches her legs when she’s not wearing her boots. Makes her miserable, proper nature, and all the more so when frigging Lavellan is looking at her like she’s the shittiest person in the world when she dares to mention it.

This is better. Gentle water, not like the kind they get on the proper coast, the kind that Blackwall loves and Dorian hates, the kind Cassandra stares at sometimes, wistful and sad, like she secretly misses the places on the other side, the places Sera won’t ever see. Not like that, all violence and salt and stinging, but something else entirely. A river isn’t like a sea, not at all. It’s sweet and clean and good; it’s _calm_ , and that’s what she needs to be too.

Could get lost in water like this and she wouldn’t mind for a second. Sweet and clean and good and calm, and she wonders if Dalish can swim.

 _Be better for everyone if they can’t,_ she thinks, and there’s real proper malice in that. Dangerous malice, the kind she sees in Iron Bull sometimes when they’re fighting Venatori; she takes more pleasure than she’d ever admit in picturing the whole damn Dalish camp drowning one by one.

The image carries her a good way, and it’s only when she hears the murmur of voices nearby that she snaps out of it, realises she’s no longer alone.

She acts on instinct, like she always has; her bow is out almost before her brain has caught up with her reflexes, long before it registers what it’s hearing. She’s not even sure whether it’s friend or foe, but that doesn’t really matter; the odds are stacked against her out here, and in the time it takes to try and figure it out either way, she could already be shot through with a dozen elfy arrows, or worse. No time for guessing games, and anyone who’d call themselves friendly would understand why she’s cautious.

Crouches real low, arrow nocked, every nerve ready. Makes good use out of those stupid elfy ears, listens close and careful, tries to get the lay of the land. 

They’re low, the voices. Hushed and a little rushed, like they’re not comfortable here. Keeping secrets, she guesses; at the very least they’re doing something they’re not supposed to, and that means baddies. She catches the odd muttered phrase, unhelpful little things like _“told you so”_ and _“waste of time”_ , and a bunch of shite in some language she doesn’t understand. That’ll help some, if she can pick it apart, so she focuses in on the way it sounds. Not elfy, definitely, but there’s something familiar in it just the same, like she’s heard bits of it before. Rough edges, sounds like spitting, like—

_“Fasta vass!”_

—like _Tevinter_.

And, yeah, in a place like this, _Tevinter_ means _trouble_. It means Venatori or slavers, and neither one is good.

 _Shite_ , she thinks, and that’s as far as she gets because they’re looking right at her.

Everything happens real fast after that, and that’s just fine because Sera thrives on fast. She’s taking control before the situation’s fully established itself; doesn’t give herself a chance to think, doesn’t give the Tevinter bastards a chance to finish their stupid foreign swear-words, doesn’t give anyone a chance to do anything. She’s on the attack in the blink of an eye, maybe even less than that, leaping back and raining arrows down on their stupid heads before they even know what’s hit them.

There’s four of them and only one of her, but shitty odds have never stopped her before, and now’s not the time to be thinking about it anyway. No sense in psyching herself out, even if she did have the brain-power to spare, which she doesn’t. Too busy dodging fireballs and lightning bolts and all that other magical shite they’re firing off at her. Too busy shooting her own kind of shite right back at them.

Sera’s no slouch when it comes to combat, even without an Inquisitor-shaped meat-shield. She moves a lot, and she’s real quick on her feet, and it’s no easy thing for the Tevinter bastards to get a lock on her. That’s the thing about fireballs and lightning bolts and magical shite; you need good aim, and if there’s one thing Sera’s good at, it’s throwing other people off theirs. The bastards are good at what they do, yeah, and focused as anything, but Sera’s been ducking and dodging idiots like this her whole life. Less magic in Denerim, sure, and less attitude in Val Royeaux, but it’s all the same bullshit in the end: they shoot, she ducks, stands, returns the favour tenfold.

The problem is, of course, that she’s outnumbered. Might be able to hold her own, yeah, but not forever, and she can tell that between them it won’t be long before they wear her down. Because, yeah, there’s four of them and one of her. And yeah, she’s quick and real good at what she does, but she’s not used to doing all the hard work all by herself; been too long since she was alone, innit? Been in the Inquisition too long, playing around with that ‘teamwork’ thing, and when was the last time she took on four big-hat pricks all on her own?

Sera can run circles round most people for the best part of a day if she needs to, but it’s not so easy to keep her stamina going when it’s four against one and they’re all locked in on her. Never thought she’d miss the stupid Inquisitor and her lousy attitude, but _Andraste_ , she could use a meat-shield right about now.

Ducks a fireball, leaps over a bolt of lightning or whatever, lands neatly on top of a rock. Towering over them by at least three heads now; elevation, yeah, that’s real useful. Feet apart, crouched low, gets one of them right between the eyes. Two arrows, right on top of each other, because now isn’t the time to play it thrifty; once he’s down, she wants him to stay that way. It’s a mess of blood and gore, and if she was with the others right now she might’ve allowed herself a moment or two to gag. Hates that part, the _parts_ part, but she doesn’t have the time to think about it right now. Only has time for the facts, simple and straightforward, shit like _one down, yeah, one down_. Only three more of the bastards to go. Easy as blinking, yeah?

Rides the adrenaline like a pro, of course, and the next one goes down just as easy. She’s got them shaken now, she can tell, thrown off-guard; probably weren’t expecting her to do as well as she is, and that’s a real advantage in the few seconds before they recover themselves. Real easy to find their weaknesses when they’re stopping and staring, take pieces out of them while they’re down, hit them while she can. And, yeah, she does.

Another spray of blood and stuff she really can’t afford to think of, and that’s it. Two down, yeah, and only two of them left. _Two more,_ she tells herself, _just two more_. That’s half the battle won, innit? On a bad day back in Denerim, she’d take out two idiots like this before breakfast. _That’s it, now, come on…_

Only, of course, they’re coming back to themselves now. Saw that coming, though she wishes she hadn’t. They’ve lost half their number now, watched their brothers or whatever get taken out by some smart-mouthed little elfy shit, and of course they’re not going to stand for that. Two of their people are dead; now it’s frigging personal.

And, yeah, it’s not good. She’s winded, breathless, and it’s getting real hard to keep up the momentum. When the moment comes — and, yeah, it’s inevitable — they cut her down as quick and ruthless as she cut down their friends.

Another bolt of lightning, close enough to throw her off-balance, and that’s all it takes. An opening, a moment of clumsiness, awkwardness, of frigging _stupidity_ , and yeah, she’s done for. It’s too easy, innit, too easy, and she should’ve known, should’ve seen _should’ve known_. Should’ve, yeah, but she doesn’t, and it’s not until after she’s twisted her body in exactly the wrong frigging way that she sees the fireball.

It’s coming right at her, too fast to dodge, air shimmering with heat and panic and—

She screams.

Everything goes white, then red, and then she’s screaming again, legs knocked out from under her by the pain, the white-red- _scream_ searing through her side, fire and heat and pain _pain_ pain. Can’t tell if she’s on fire or if it just feels like it; can’t tell much of anything at all, and about a second later it doesn’t matter anyway.

Legs gone, yeah, and so is the rest of her; elevation was a good idea a second ago, but now it’s working against her. Slips, falls, feels the _crack_ as her head slams against the rock, stars and pain exploding behind her eyes, blinding and awful and—

—and the blaze of fire and heat and agony dissolves into madness and spinning and nausea, and the white-red- _scream_ dissolves into darkness and that’s it, finally, _Maker, Andraste_ , and the whole sodding nightmare dissolves and dissolves and dissolves until there’s nothing left, nothing at all, just the darkness and the madness and… and…

… _nothing._

*


	2. Children Of Abel, Children Of Cain

*

She comes around real slow.

Knows it’s bad. Knows it almost before she remembers anything else. Who she is, where she is, what happened… all that shite is still a mess of nonsense and colour, but she doesn’t even need to think to know it’s bad. Been taken down dozens of times, and she knows the score like she knows her way around a quiver, like she knows her way around a lot of things she probably shouldn’t; it’s automatic, no thinking required, and the knowledge pulses like her vision, like the blurry haze of colours and shapes that make no sense.

Her head’s fuzzy for sure, but it’s clearing slowly. Dizzy too, like she’s falling or maybe like the world is falling around her, and there’s a really bad taste in her mouth, like ash and dirt and blood. Takes forever for the world to come back into focus, for her head to clear and her brain to process anything other than _bad, bad, bad_.

And, yeah, it is. The pain hits slow too, as sluggish and screwed-up as the rest of her, but it does hit, and the only thing that stops her from screaming when it does is the fact that she bloody can’t. No strength in her, stomach and chest and throat all tied in knots, no power in the parts of her that need to make sound. Weak, headachey, world spinning all around her, and she can’t even frigging move; the pain might scream, but she sure as shit can’t.

Stays that way for a bit, not moving and barely breathing, just letting the pain wash over her, struggling back to herself as best she can, slow and steady and safe. Doesn’t try to force it, doesn’t strain to remember, just lets her body and brain put themselves back together at their own pace. It comes back slow, the memory thing, but like the pain it does come back, bits and pieces and fractures coming together to paint a picture that she recognises, that she understands.

Remembers. Fucking elves, fucking Dalish, fucking Dorian, fucking Sole-arse, fucking Inquisitor, fucking _everyone_ … and then, of course, fucking Tevinters.

Remembers fighting, too. Remembers elevation, feet apart, remembers putting arrows into two of them. Remembers the sight, blood and gore and _parts_ , remembers forcing herself not to think. Remembers the other two blind-siding her with their fancy Tevinter magic-shite, remembers lightning and fireballs. Remembers the pain, clearer now with every pulse that sears her side, and every time she tries to breathe it rips right through her again, as blinding and brutal as the first time.

Can’t breathe properly for a very long time; even trying almost knocks her out again, and it feels like forever before she can do anything at all. Forever, just gasping and whimpering and trying real hard not to die, not to black out again and not wake up. A long, long time with nothing but pain and slow-surfacing memories, and even longer before her vision clears enough to take in her surroundings, before the world stops spinning and the colours come into focus, before she can take a breath and figure out where she is, what’s going on, and how much trouble she’s in.

Turns out? A whole frigging lot.

She’s tied to a tree. Not very creative, honestly, but she figures they’re probably strapped for resources in this middle-of-nowhere wasteland that the elves love so much. Points for effort, at least, if not for originality. Her arms are bound behind her, pulled tight and terrible, and the searing burning fire-pain in her side howls and roars every time she tries to move. Tied up good and tight, yeah, but it’s not impossible, and if she wasn’t so frigging hurt she could probably pull herself free well enough. Tevinter tossers probably think the pain will keep her docile, or at least stop her from trying anything stupid… and, well, yeah. As loathe as she is to admit it, they’re probably right. Can’t remember the last time she hurt this bad.

Blames the pain, then, for how long it takes her to realise she’s not alone.

“ _Aneth ara_.”

And, yeah, of course it’s one of _them_. Because this whole stupid situation isn’t awful enough already, is it? He’s tree-tied too, maybe five or ten paces away. Too far to touch, even if they weren’t bound, too close to pretend she can’t hear him.

“Piss off, elfy.”

He snorts. “A pleasure to see you again too, friend.” Thinks he’s a comedian too, does he? Frigging wonderful. “Unfortunate that it’s under these conditions, though.”

It’s another long moment before she can place the face, figure out where she knows him from. Remembers meeting him yesterday or whenever the heck it was, the funny-looking hunter who spent a frigging lifetime talking with Lavellan about Dalish shite. Got them a good few points with the clan, mentioning his name, but now that she’s got his face in front of her Sera finds that she can’t remember it at all. Orvar, was it? Orfanin? Oghren? Something stupid and elfy, anyway.

“Mm.” Keeps her voice real low, like she’s trying to keep quiet instead of trying to remember who the fuck he is. “You’re that hunter, yeah? Ona… Ora…”

He chuckles. “Olafin. Yes.”

“Great. Brilliant. You know me, I know you, it’s all happy elfy families, innit?” She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to breathe through the burning in her side. “Just what I bloody need.”

Tries to keep it real low, that part, but apparently he hears her anyway. Doesn’t look too offended, though, and she’s honestly not sure at this point if tolerance isn’t worse than disdain and disgust would be. At least she’s used to that, right? This, the way he’s wrinkling his forehead, like he’s trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, figure her out before passing judgement… that’s weird enough in most people, but in an elfy type it’s even weirder. Too much like hard work, trying to think about it.

“I understand your frustration,” he says after a moment, and Sera would burst out laughing if she had the strength.

“Don’t think so.” Doesn’t even bother trying to keep the venom out of her voice, the bitter amusement. “Tied to a frigging tree in the middle of frigging nowhere, and my only frigging company is a frigging elf from the same frigging clan who frigging kicked me out on my frigging arse in the frigging first place.”

“That’s an awful lot of repetition, and I’m afraid the word is not—”

“Oh, shut it.” Glares at him, like this is all his fault, and doesn’t even care that she’s being unfair. “And, oh yeah, don’t forget the frigging _scorch-marks_.”

Just mentioning them makes the pain sharper again, and the world starts spinning around her again. So bad she feels sick, feels dizzy, feels like she’s going to faint, and it’s so, _so_ not good. Has to get out of here, has to save herself, has to do something, but _Maker_ she can’t breathe and _Maker_ she can’t think and _Maker, please, make it stop…_

Hunter Olafin Whatsisface clears his throat. “Yes,” he says. “It does look quite painful.” 

“Frigging understatement, pisshead.”

He acknowledges with a grunt. “A shame we’re here, all things considered. If we were back at camp, our healer could…” Trails off, like he’s finally got his head around the rest of her diatribe, like he’s finally piecing together all the other shite, the shite that’s making her hiss and spit and hate him. “Excuse me a moment. Did you say ‘kicked out’?”

“You got ears,” she mutters, but ranting at him helps her to control her breathing, control the pain. Helps in a lot of ways, not that she’d ever let him see. “Big enough, aren’t they? Can’t pretend like you didn’t hear.”

“Well, yes, I heard. But understanding is a different thing, friend, and…”

“Not your friend. Never be friends with the likes of you. Your frigging clan made sure of that. Them and their bloody dead elves and burial whatevers and…” But it’s bloody pointless, innit? He wasn’t there, wasn’t even part of it, and now isn’t the time to feed those old resentments. Later, sure, but first they have to get out of here alive. “Ugh, whatever. Not important, is it? Not now, anyway. But if you even think of turning around and going off on how bloody wonderful your bloody clan is, then you’re on your own. No way I’m saving your arse if you’re just going to make it some elfy thing.”

He stares at her like she’s grown an extra head, or lost the one she’s already got. “Well, ah…”

“Ugh. Whatever. Just shut up, yeah? Before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Fucking elves. “Well, yes. It’s just… well, forgive me, _da’len_ , but you’re not exactly in any condition to—”

“Said ‘shut it’, didn’t I?” Bad enough that he’s right; she’s sure as shit not about to let him see it. “Said I’ll save your arse, and I’ll bloody do it. Get us both out of here, just you wait and see.”

Means a whole lot more than just the words, that, and they both know it. But yeah, fact is, he’s got the right of it: she’s not really in any condition to do anything at all, much less stage a breakout or whatever. It’s hard enough just to keep her head up, innit? Hard enough to keep from blacking out again every time her lungs expand, and every pulse of pain sends her a little closer to losing what tiny sliver of self-control she still has. Hates that he’s right, hates that he can see everything, the way she’s gasping, the way she can’t breathe, all the weakest and most pathetic parts of her. Hates that he’s one of _them_ , that he’ll probably tell all his stupid friends, that they’ll know once and for all that the stupid frigging flat-ear can’t do anything right.

Has to do it. Impossible, sure, but she has to. Won’t let them think she’s nothing. Frigging _won’t_.

She sighs, lets her head fall back until it hits the tree-trunk, blinks against the burst of stars, concussion-pain in the place where she hit her head. Easier to breathe through, bruises and tender bone. Doesn’t feel like dying, not like the burn on her skin, and it helps to focus on that, focus on what she can do, what she can endure. Easier, at least, than choking on screams she can’t even voice.

It’s awful. Worse than awful. Probably be days before she can lift her bow again without feeling it, and that’s with healing. Assuming she’d let one of those elfy pissballs anywhere near her after this. It’s always kind of an in-the-air question, the whole ‘healing’ thing, even at the best of times; magic makes her uncomfortable, and even when it’s just Solas, elfy magic is a hundred times worse. Would think twice about letting him near her even on a good day, but after all this anyone with pointy ears is way up high on her shit-list.

Kick a stupid grave, get sold into frigging Tevinter slavery. In what frigging universe is that fair?

She hates it. Like, really violently _hates it_ , and the hate surges up in her again, as hot as the pain and just as blinding. It’s enough to get her voice back, enough to choke through the clenching in her lungs, her gut, her throat, and it tears out of her in a desperate howl.

“Oi!”

Because, yeah, of course it brings the frigging Tevinters running. They get right up in her face, don’t even bother with personal space or anything, eyes flashing with the same fire she still feels tearing at her skin.

She rolls her eyes, makes a point of coming off strong. Doesn’t even flinch when they punctuate the moment with violence, one of them cracking her right across the face. It’s sharp, yeah, and rattles her brains real good, but next to the searing scalding burn it’s nothing at all, and it doesn’t take much effort to swallow it down. Helps to ground her, give her back a little focus, and she, fills herself up with all the hate, all the rage, everything, turns her lips up real tight, and spits right in his stupid face.

Earns her another crack, that does, and this time she flat-out laughs.

“Was that really necessary?” the other one asks.

There it is, that snooty Tevinter accent she knows so well; it makes her think of Dorian for a moment or two, and that stings worse than she expects, almost worse than the burn, if anything can be. Makes her ache in places that still can’t move, and that makes it real hard to keep the grin on her face.

“Plenty more where that came from,” she grits out, but she can tell they’ve seen the tremor.

The snooty one snorts; the meathead raises a fist. “You’ll only make it worse for yourself in the end, you know.”

Sera spits again. It’s more blood than saliva this time, though, and doesn’t quite reach them. Still, she makes a show of it because she has to, because they can’t see how much it hurts, how much they’ve already hurt her. Won’t let them see, won’t let them know they’ve—

 _No_. Haven’t won yet, have they? And she won’t let them. Not while she’s still breathing.

“What?” she snorts. “Like this is meant to be _bad_?”

It’s all bullshit, though, and they know it as well as she does. Elves don’t mean shit in Tevinter, and slavery’s about the best they can hope for. Makes sense that’s where she’s heading, at any rate, since they’re keeping them alive. Two elves in Tevinter hands, one wounded and neither dead? Got to be slavery, that. Only thing that makes any kind of sense.

Ironic, in a sad sort of way. Looks like even the frigging Tevinters know better than to pass up a decent deal when passing through elf country, and isn’t that just a kick in the teeth to someone who isn’t frigging elfy enough? Good enough to get sold on to some rich tit who’ll probably take her apart or worse. Good enough to get her skin burned off, her face punched in. Good enough to get tied to a tree and told to behave, but there’s Hunter Whatsisface Elfington right over there, getting the same shit pointed at him, and he’s staring at her like they’re a whole frigging world apart.

Not that it matters anyway, all that. Her hollow defiance just makes the Tevinters laugh, like they know she knows how pointless it is, like it’s so frigging funny, how screwed she is.

They don’t lash out again, probably because they know there’s no bloody point; Sera’s not exactly subtle even at the best of times, and she’s sure as shit not subtle when she feels like half her body is still on fire, when her head feels like a giant bruise, when she’s tied to a tree and spitting blood and all that stupid shite. No sense in rubbing her face in it, she supposes, and why risk damaging the merchandise even more than it already is? There’s no-one on either side of the Waking Sea stupid enough to buy a dead slave.

They look at each other, the two of them, like they’re sharing secrets, then the snooty one turns back to her. “Look, just keep it down to a dull roar, would you? No-one here wants to listen to your posturing.”

It’s not a suggestion, but it’s not really the warning it pretends to be either. It’s more like a challenge, like they’re daring her to try it on with them, daring her to test their patience, push them just that little bit further. On a normal day, she’d do it just to see the looks on their faces; she knows what happens to slaves in Tevinter, and she knows as well as they do that she’s better off worthless and dead than alive and property. Would probably make a game of it too, seeing how long before they broke down and broke her, but she doesn’t have the strength in her for that shit now. Doesn’t even have enough left in her mouth to spit.

So, yeah, she shuts up. Shuts down, almost, just goes limp and blind and stupid. Doesn’t nod or shake her head or anything, makes a show of acting like she never heard them at all. Just stares at the middle distance, dumb and stupid and ignorant, like she’s forgotten they’re there at all. Knows their type, knows how easily they’ll get bored if she’s not rising to their bait… and, yeah, they do. Lose interest in about eight seconds, roll their eyes at each other and stomp back to the pretty little spot they’ve picked out to set up camp. No sense wasting their time on a slave, right? No sense in making conversation with a _knife-ear_.

Always comes down to that, doesn’t it? Dalish or Tevinter, it always comes down to the shape of her sodding ears.

It makes her angry all over again, and it’s probably for the best she’s burned out what little energy she had, because she’d be howling again if she could. Not elfy enough for the ‘proper’ elves, the self-righteous pricks like that idiot next to her, Hunter Olaf-Whatsisface; not good enough for them, oh no, but apparently her stupid flat ears are still knifey enough to make a decent slave. Can’t win, can she? Everywhere she looks, there’s someone waiting to kick her in the face because of her ears.

Hates it. Hates it. _Hates it_.

“I’ll get us out of here,” she hisses again. Because, yeah, she’s got the strength for that. They can take everything she’s got, but she’ll always have enough left for that. “You just watch, you pissing elfy pisshead. You just _watch_.”

“ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” he says, all soft and thoughtful.

Sera opens her mouth to tell him to shut up, but the words die in her throat. She doesn’t know what he said, what it means, doesn’t know and doesn’t care…

…yet still, somehow, something in the rhythm of his voice makes her want to cry.

*

The hours tick by, as painful as the burn on her skin.

Sitting there, helpless and hopeless, tied to a frigging tree; more than anything else in the whole frigging world, she just wants to get up and do something, prove that she can, to Whatsisface and to herself as well. Wants it more than she cares about surviving right now, but she can’t. Frigging _can’t_.

Tries it once or twice. Not even doing something, just frigging moving; muscles straining, ropes cutting into her wrists when she tries to tug her hands free, but it’s futile, hopeless. The pain in her side shrieks through every nerve, every molecule, rips her apart from the inside and reduces her to nothing; it whites out her brain, locks up her body, muscles seizing and veins boiling, tears through her until there’s nothing left but the sounds she can’t let out.

Weak, worthless, and a part of her knows that there’s no shame in that, knows that anyone — even Blackwall, even Cassandra, even _Lavellan_ — would be like this in the same situation. Knows it, yeah, because this isn’t just pain, it’s _fireball_ -pain, and there’s nothing worse. Knows it, of course she does, but when has knowing ever stopped her from hating?

Hunter Whatsisface watches her. Proper watches her, all intense and creepy, like he halfway expects her to just drop dead right in front of him. Doesn’t say anything about it, of course, but she can feel him staring and the part of her that isn’t delirious with pain imagines he’s judging her, imagines she can hear him thinking it. Been here before, hasn’t she? Maybe not _here_ , like tied to a frigging tree and choking on her own spit, but _here_ stuck with some big-breeches Proper Elf, feeling them staring at her and knowing they’re thinking things about her. Been here, oh yeah, and she wonders how long it’ll be before he cracks and says the word out loud.

Hours on hours. Frigging _hours_ , and the only way things change is that the pain gets worse and her arms get tired and the sun starts going down. Sweat beading between her shoulderblades, trickling down, salt stinging in the burn, searing, shrieking, screaming and screaming and the only thing keeping her from doing the same is knowing that he’s waiting for it, knowing that he expects it.

Watches the sun when it starts to set, when she runs out of everything else. Lets the light burn into her eyes, blind her just like the other burn, just like the pain every time it pulses; a better burn, sunlight in her eyes, and it doesn’t make her weak like the one on her skin, doesn’t make her worthless and small, doesn’t make her want to scream or sob. Doesn’t stop her from breathing, moving, untying herself. Doesn’t stop her from doing all the things she knows she can, all the things she knows she has to.

It gets real cold when the sun’s finally gone, when the moon comes up in its place. Cold, yeah, and a little scary too; she can hear the demons howling and hissing in the distance, can hear the rams and the wolves and the halla, big and small animals running and fighting and howling at the sky. Been a real long time since she had to sleep under the stars like this, like properly under them, no tent, no cover, no nothing. Not done that since she was little, and those times weren’t pretty. Not anything she wants to remember; it’s a different kind of pain, for sure, but it cripples her just as efficiently.

The moon’s real high, like middle-of-the-night high when Hunter Whatsisface finally breaks his self-righteous elfy silence. He looks exhausted, and Sera might almost feel a little sorry for him, if she didn’t have it worse, if he wasn’t one of _them_ , if they weren’t so frigging different. Might almost feel sorry for him, only he’s got the same look in his eye she saw in Solas’s back in Var Bell-Whatever, the look that says he’s after something she’ll never be, and it’s hard to feel anything when faced with that, hard to feel anything but _not enough_.

“How’s the pain?” he asks in a raspy whisper.

Sera grits her teeth. Bites back the surfacing wail, doesn’t let him see how close she is to tears. “Fine,” she says. “No big deal, yeah? Had plenty worse.”

“With your charming personality? I don’t doubt it.”

He leaves it at that for a moment or two, like he’s waiting for her to say something, or maybe just hoping she will. She doesn’t, of course, partly out of spite and partly because she can see the look on his face, the questions he’s not asking, all that shite she’s so sure she can hear him thinking. _‘Where are your tattoos? Are you one of those shem-lovers? Did you abandon your own people to play nice with the barbarians who slaughtered your ancestors?’_ She’s heard it all before, hasn’t she, and it twists inside of her to anticipate it again now. Never ask the other questions, do they? _‘What’s it like? Do they hate you because you look like us? Do they hurt you because you’re not one of them? Do they treat you like we do?’_ Never ask those ones, do they?

For his part, he doesn’t ask any of them, not the good questions or the bad ones. She waits him out, staring up at the moon, counting the seconds until he breaks. If he wants answers, he’s going to have to drag them out of her, and she can tell he doesn’t have the balls for that. Doesn’t want to break the fragile little stalemate they have going, and he definitely doesn’t want to come off like the self-righteous Dalish tit she knows he is.

Gives up after a while, he does, with a sigh and a shake of his stupid head. “I can help, you know.”

Sera blinks; she’s still caught up on all those questions, the ones he hasn’t asked, and it’s a long moment before she realises he’s moved on completely. “You what?”

He gestures with his head. “You don’t have to get us out of here all on your own. I’m not some feeble old man who can’t make his own way. There’s a reason Keeper Hawen allowed me to wander on my own.”

“Piss on you.” Voice sharp, pain sharper. “Don’t need no help from some pisshead elfy-elf.”

“Not to offend you, friend, but going by the way you look, you can hardly afford to be picky.” Shrugs, or tries to, but he’s tied as tight as she is and it doesn’t really work. “Besides, I’m not in the habit of playing the helpless little shepherd waiting for some _flat-ear_ to rescue me.”

And there it is, just like she knew it would be. No real malice in the word, he says it like he doesn’t even know it hurts, like he’s said it so many times he’s all but forgotten that it means something cruel. Sera thinks about telling him, letting him see how deep it cuts, but she doesn’t. Can’t. Won’t.

“Stop calling me ‘friend’,” she says instead, because that’s easier. “I’m not your frigging friend. Never be friends with the likes of you.”

“ _Ir abelas_.” The language makes her hiss; she can’t help herself, it rings too close to the word, the name, the insult and the way it still stings. He studies her for a moment, then shakes his head. “All right. I’m sorry. Only, you never gave a name.”

That’s a fair point, Sera supposes, and she concedes it with a huff. “Sera. If you have to.”

Tenses right up as she says it, clenching everything there is to clench and never mind that it hurts, bracing for a litany of insults and complaints. _‘That’s not a proper elven name’_ or _‘I knew you were one of them, taking their names as well as their cities’_ or any one of a million other things. Doesn’t even realise she’s doing it until he doesn’t go there, and even then it’s a long time before her muscles go slack, before she stops waiting for the shame to strike.

He doesn’t give any kind of opinion at all, as it goes, just repeats her name all quiet and thoughtful, like it’s not something awful, like maybe she’s not either. Frigging weird, that.

“Well, then,” he says after a moment, “ _Sera_. What say you to a united front?”

Could say a lot of things, honestly, but she doesn’t. He’s got a point, and they both know it; she can’t do a damn thing on her own right now, and that doesn’t look like it’s going to change any time soon. They’ll be halfway across the bloody Waking Sea before she can even hold her frigging bow, much less use it, and as loathe as she is to lean on one of those frigging Dalish arses, it’s not like she has much choice.

Besides, at the very least, she supposes she can find some comfort in knowing he’s probably as annoyed about having to depend on some _shem_ -loving flat-ear as she is about working with him.

“Whatever,” she mutters, conceding but not too much. “But don’t you go getting in my way, yeah?”

He smiles, a smug Dalish sort of a smile, the kind that says _‘I won’_ so frigging loud he doesn’t have to waste his breath on the words. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

 _Bloody better not,_ she thinks, but keeps it to herself. No point saying it out loud, is there? She’d just piss him off, or end up getting more pissed off herself when she doesn’t piss him off, and then where would they be? Back at the beginning, not talking and no closer to getting out of this. Sera’s not the kind to lean on anyone, Dalish or not, but the facts are what they are, and yeah, she _does_ frigging need him.

Hates that. So much hate in her, and it just keeps growing and growing; won’t be any room left inside of her soon. But then, what else is she supposed to feel? Helpless, tied up, hurting so bad she can hardly see, and of course the only frigging witness is one of the fucking elfy pissheads who already think she’s worthless; what else is she supposed to do, if not hate? He says _‘flat-ear’_ just like they do, sees her the same way they do; she’s dirt in his eyes, and her own stupid body is too weak and wounded to let her prove him wrong.

So, yeah, she takes a moment for herself. Stares up at the moon, lets the light catch her face. Needs a second or two to catch her breath, to steady her thoughts, wash the pain away and hide it away somewhere he can’t see, somewhere no-one can. The physical pain, yeah, but the other kind too, the kind that hisses and snarls when he talks elven at her, the kind that stiffens and says cruel things and can’t bear to hear that word. The _elf_ pain.

“Listen.” Him again, Dalish pisshead. Voice low, kind of urgent, like he can hear what she’s thinking, knows they can’t afford to get caught up in all that, the differences between them, the piss and vinegar that makes this all so hard. Has to keep them focused, because apparently Sera can’t do that by herself either. “Getting out of these bindings, that’s the easy part, don’t you think?”

 _Not really,_ Sera thinks, annoyed. If it was, she would’ve done it by now, and piss on the consequences, the fact that the Tevinters would be on her faster than anything. If she could, she’d risk it, but she bloody well can’t, can she? Couldn’t get herself out of a frigging paper bag right now, in truth, but she’s not about to admit that to some self-righteous elfy pisshead.

“If you say so,” she says instead, and hopes she doesn’t sound too sullen. “What’s your frigging point?”

He glances back at the Tevinter camp, like he’s afraid they’ll overhear or something; they’re far enough away that it’s obviously not an issue, but he keeps his voice real low just to be safe. They’re taking it turns to stand watch, keeping a close eye on them from their comfortable fire-warmed distance, and it makes Sera feel uncomfortable, the way she can almost make out their eyes even in the darkness. Like they’re something unnatural, not properly human. Makes her think of Dorian again, and wonder what he’d say if he was here too.

“My point,” Hunter Whatsisface whispers after a moment, “is that getting ourselves free won’t do much good with those _shems_ watching our every move.” He mutters something under his breath in elven, and Sera hisses a warning. Sounds like he’s swearing; Sera’s always game for a good curse or two, sure, but not in that language. Not ever. “I’m saying that we need a distraction. If you don’t mind my saying so, friend, you—”

“Told you. I’m not your bloody friend.”

“—have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and frigging smirks. “Just saying, it would suit our needs well enough.”

Sera doesn’t point out that her mouth has ‘suited’ a lot of needs in its time, and none of them elven. Doesn’t point out the other two-dozen off-colour thoughts she’s having right now either, because honestly he has a point. She is good at distraction, no arguing that; even when she’s not incensed like she is now, she’s never one to keep quiet, to sit there and take it when someone’s punching down. And, well, yeah. Aren’t those fancy tits at Skyhold always saying that her mouth will land her in trouble one of these days? Might as well be today, yeah?

“So you want me to, what, sweet-talk the Tevin-tossers while you slip the ropes?”

He nods. “If you think you’re up for it, _friend_.”

Deliberate, that, and it gets her hackles up right good. “Shut it, you. What you plan on doing after? Can’t keep them talking forever, and not even Tevinters are stupid enough not to notice you making a run for it.”

He just laughs. “You’ve never seen the Dalish in a fight, have you?”

There’s a smirk in his voice, and his lips are twitching in a way that makes her want to pull free, pain be damned, and punch him. She can hear the unspoken _‘flat-ear’_ as sure as anything, can feel the disdain pouring off him, and it makes her stupid flat ears flush pink and hot.

“Bloody right, I haven’t,” she mutters. “Pissheads, the lot of you.”

Another laugh, but colder this time. “Well, then. This’ll be a lesson for us both, hm? Get me that distraction, and I’ll show you what the People can do.”

Sera closes her eyes, tries to breathe. “Fine. Whatever. In the morning, yeah? Or do you and your ‘People’ like fighting in the bloody dark?”

“The morning will be fine,” he says. He’s still smirking, but there’s a softness in his voice that makes her think of Solas, makes her ache in places she doesn’t like to remember she has. “If you can get the two of them together, that would be ideal. And who knows?” There it is again, that self-righteous elfy shit, and she knows what’s coming even before he says it. “Maybe you’ll show me a thing or two about what flat-ears can do, too.”

Sera snarls, bites down on her tongue to keep from biting off a reply that would shatter this uneasy alliance before it even gets started. Won’t let herself be baited, won’t let her temper flare. There’s enough heat in her already, the searing at her side and the blood boiling in her head; she won’t let him drag out any more.

Doesn’t say it, yeah, but she thinks it. Thinks it real hard. _I’ll show you, all right. I’ll show the bloody lot of you. You’ll see. You’ll frigging see…_

And, yeah. Maybe, if she’s real lucky, she’ll see it for herself as well.

*

The night drags on for what feels like forever.

No surprises there; having a plan is one thing, but waiting is something else entirely and she’s never been patient. Can’t sleep, so all that’s left is thinking and feeling and hurting, and none of those things are good. Whatsisface goes real quiet once they’re done talking, eyes shut and breathing even; Sera knows he’s not asleep, but he looks so frigging calm, like he’s anywhere but here. Almost envies him, in some small part of her, but that’s too close, too elfy, and she can’t afford to indulge that piece of her now, can’t afford to listen to the whispers that wish they could be more like him, more like _them_ , more like—

No. None of that. Not here, not there, not ever.

Forever, yea. Frigging _forever_ with all that piss spinning round in her head, body screaming and brain crying like a baby. Easy to turn the hate inwards when she’s feeling like that. Easy to turn everything inwards, forget that it’s the others she hates, the Tevinters and the elves and all that other shite, all the violence seething inside her; easy to forget all the other things she’s supposed to hate when she’s so full up on hating herself.

She’s feeling real weak by the time the sun comes up. Not good news for a fight, but who’s frigging fault is that? Her head’s spinning from more than just the noise in her brain, limbs shaky, and it’s only when she catches the scent of meat cooking on the Tevinter fire that she realises how long it’s been since she had a good meal, realises just how frigging hungry she is.

Not much chance of getting them to share, she knows, but hey, it’s as good a way in as any other, innit?

She cuts a glance at Whatsisface, makes sure he’s paying attention. Doesn’t say anything to him, and he doesn’t say anything back. No need to, really, regardless of the the risk; he straightens up just a little, just enough, attentive, and that’s all the communication they need. Both know where this is going, and they both know it’s happening now. A glance, a shift in posture, and it’s game on.

Sera takes a breath. Holds it for a beat or two longer than she needs to, and braces against the pain when she lets it out. Turns her attention to the Tevinters, and braces for a whole lot more.

“Oi, you!”

Gets their attention real quick, that does. No surprises there; nothing worse than getting your breakfast interrupted by whining soon-to-be slaves, after all. They turn to glare at her, the two of them in unison, and the snooty one holds up a hand.

“Don’t make things worse for yourself,” he says again, like it’s in her best interest to keep quiet and not the exact opposite right now.

Might have a point on another day, to be honest. Her face still feels bruised and raw where they took swings at her yesterday, and coupled with the burn still lit up along her flesh she might think twice on a normal day before inviting any more pain. Might do, yeah, but she’s got a job to do, and she’s not going to shy away from it. Not with Whatsisface Elfyballs watching. Not going to back down, and if those idiots think a couple of bruises are anywhere near enough to stop her, they have no idea who they’re dealing with. No idea, yeah, what this frigging _flat-ear_ is capable of.

She hisses at them, bares her teeth, lets her face show off all that stuff. Lets them know without a doubt that she’s not afraid of them, that she’s not afraid of anything. And, yeah, maybe there’s a part of her that wants to show off to Whatsisface as well, make him see that he’s not the only one with skills, not the only one who can hold his own against pissheads like this.

“Yeah, yeah,” she gripes. “Whatever. _‘I am Tevinter, hear me roar’_ , or whatever. Right impressive, innit?” Rolls her eyes, makes it real clear that she doesn’t mean a word of it. “Now, you idiots going to feed us or what?”

The other one, the meathead with the mean right hook, snorts a laugh. “Demanding little rabbit, aren’t you?”

He glances back at his snooty little friend, and they talk a whole lot with their eyes and their hands, communicate shit that Sera doesn’t understand. Probably insulting her or something, and that’s just fine by her. Everyone else does; why not them as well? Anyway, it takes them about two seconds for the meathead to shake his head and get up. Probably pissed off that she’s interrupted his breakfast or whatever, and that’s just fine with her, innit? Got them right where she wants them, so long as they don’t start throwing fire.

Not much chance of that, though. Not with her as banged-up as she is. Not if they want her to live long enough to see the sodding Imperium. One more stray fireball, and she’s done. Well-done, even, and they know it as well as she does.

Meathead grunts, wipes off his hands on his robes, and picks up the knife he’s been using to poke at the meat. Going by the look on his face, it won’t be the only thing he’ll be sticking the blade in, but hey, whatever. Blade beats burning, doesn’t it? And bleeding definitely beats dying. Anyway, whatever he does, no little sticky knife can hurt as bad as what’s already tearing through her. Pretty sure there’s nothing in frigging Thedas that hurts as much as that.

“Hungry, are we?” It’s not easy to sound tough with a Tevinter accent, but he’s trying real hard. “Fancy the taste of fresh steel?”

Sera tries to shrug. Can’t, though; even without the ropes holding her in place, she’s in too much pain. Shoulders locked up from too long in a shitty position, and her side’s still screaming. Makes her feel helpless for a moment or two, like her body’s finally realising just how helpless it is. He’s not Bull-huge, not by a long way, but he’s big enough, and it’s only when he waves the knife in her face that it really hits her how much trouble she’ll be in if Whatsisface doesn’t come through. If he’s all talk, all mouth just like her… well, it’s not going to be pretty, and the part of her that still can’t breathe is scared out of its wits.

Forces it back, though, because she has to. Time enough for that later, yeah? Have a nice long breakdown when she’s out of this mess, safe and sound back in Skyhold with a drink in one hand and no-one to hear her but Creepy up there in the rafters. For right now, there’s more important shit to deal with, and she has no intention of letting her stupid frigging weakness mess the whole thing up. _Focus, yeah? Focus, focus, focus._

And so she does. “Better than nothing, innit?” Sticks her tongue out a little way, stares him down. “You offering?”

He actually grimaces at that; hard to tell whether it’s the words that get him or the tongue, but either way he’d make a shitty card player. Daft as anything, the look on his face, and Sera leans right in, gets up in his personal space as best she can when she can’t really move, pushes the flash of discomfort as hard as she can. Hey, it’s the distraction they’re after, right? And if she can get a little payback for the pain screaming through her, let them see they’ve not broken her, let them know they _can’t_ bloody break her… well, all the better, innit? All the better for everyone.

He recovers right quick, though. Got to in Tevinter, she supposes; little moments like that will land you exile or worse, if Dorian’s horror stories are to be believed. Counters her bravado with his own, leans right in until their noses are almost touching, until he’s pressed right up against her, heavy and painful and suffocating. Makes her bite down real hard on a scream, not because he’s close but because he’s right _there_ , pushing against the burn on her skin, the place where it’s blackout-bad, brutal and blinding and—

“You’d best watch yourself.”

Knife real close, pressed tight under her jaw, and she focuses on that, the cool metal, the contact, the threat of blood and physical violence. Easy, that, nothing she hasn’t dealt with before, and it helps her to force a smile, to block out the blackout-burn and pretend she doesn’t feel anything at all.

“Yeah?” Bares her teeth, a grimace masked as a grin. “Well, same to you, pisshead.”

Can’t move her body, but she can move her head all right, and she does. Butts him hard, forehead slamming against his, hard and fast with a _snap_ and a _crack_.

She sees stars for a second or two, feels the trickle of blood where the knife broke the skin, just a nick, more from surprise than anything else, and it tastes a whole lot more like victory than anything else. He’s staggering back, dazed and disoriented and cursing in Tevene, and that’s exactly what she wanted, innit? Because, yeah, his snooty little friend is on her now too, snapping and muttering and getting up, crossing over in two quick strides. He’s been the quiet one up until now, the one using words instead of weapons, but he’s mad as anything now and Sera can tell it’s about to get real ugly, real violent. Bad, sort of, but at least they’re both on her, at least she’s the distraction, at least she followed through on her promise, and if she dies here, at least she’ll know she—

_Wham!_

It’s a real long moment before Sera realises she wasn’t the one who got hit this time. It all happens so quick, so explosive, and the sound’s still rattling through her brain while she’s scrambling to put the pieces together.

Plays it out in her head, fast as lightning: the two of them rounding on her, the knife flashing in the sun, magic crackling in one of their fists, a _flash_ and a _whoosh_ , so close, so frigging close, terror and panic and _Maker, Andraste, Creators, anyone_ — and then it was over. Frigging _nothing_ , all over again but not the kind of nothing she got last time, the kind that means pain and trouble and unconsciousness; no, this was the other kind, the kind that means she can catch her breath, the kind that means they’re the ones who are down, not her. The kind that means—

“Well?” Whatsisface, knife in hand, the flash of steel matching the flash of his teeth as he grins, shaking the last of the rope off his wrists. “You going to show me what you flat-ears can do, or not?”

Sera stares for a second. No idea what happened, how he did it, how frigging _fast_ he’d have to be, but now isn’t the time to wonder. No time for shit like that, not now. The bastards are down, yeah, but not out, and it takes more than a surprise attack to keep a damned Tevinter from coming back for more. They’re recovering already, both of them, and that means two stupid elves don’t have time for cracking jokes.

Shame, though. Sera could really use a good joke right about now.

She hits the floor as soon as he cuts through the ropes. No time for that, either, but she can’t help herself. Wasn’t prepared for the pain, the scream in her side where the burn is, the way her vision whites out as her body goes slack. Wasn’t prepared for her shoulders to get in on it too, spasming in all the places they’ve been locked up all frigging night. Makes her angry, the way Whatsisface is moving around without any trouble at all, like he’s just come back from a frigging stroll. He’s a blur of limbs, lashing out, kicking the one on the floor to make sure he stays there, and Sera… Sera…

Sera can’t frigging do that. Can’t do anything, and _Maker_ , she hates it, _Maker_ it hurts, _Maker_ …

The other one’s recovering himself now, spitting fire, and Sera tries to cry out, to shout a warning, to make some kind of frigging noise, but her breath catches in her throat, a heaving retching sort of sound, a choke of pain that strangles and stutters, and of course Whatsisface ignores it, of course he doesn’t even frigging look at her. She’s pathetic; what kind of idiot would waste their time on her right now?

He pays for it, though, and his shriek catches her as the Tevinter bastard catches him off-guard. Doesn’t waste time on magic this time, or maybe Sera’s little headbutt dazed him more than she thought it would; he goes right for the knife, a twist of Whatsisface’s wrist, a jerk and a kick from behind, and then the weapon’s free, clattering to the ground and lying there, worthless and helpless and stupid just like Sera, just like the pathetic little nobody who can’t do anything, who can’t cry out or shout or frigging breathe, and—

 _No_. Won’t go down like this. Won’t go down a weakling, a coward, a frigging flat-ear who’s not worth shite.

Gets up onto her knees somehow, and it damn near takes everything she has. She can barely even see through the burning tearing _screaming_ in her side, and when she makes a desperate lunge at the knife, choking on the pain, she barely even feels it when the Tevinter tosser steps in and stomps on her hand.

He grabs the knife, of course, rounds on her with murder in his eyes. Sera keeps her eyes on Whatsisface, watches as he gets his breath back; apparently Dalish really are as good in a pinch as he says they are, because he comes back to himself real fast, doesn’t leave her to fend for herself for even a second. He comes up behind the Tevinter tit, as silent as anything, and takes a real good swing, clocks him right in the head. And, yeah, there they are again, right back where they started; the Tevinter’s flat on the floor, Whatsisface standing over him, and for maybe half a second Sera’s mind goes blank with relief and all she can think is _it’s over, it’s over, praise Andraste, it’s frigging over._

Only it’s not, is it? Because the other one’s not out yet, is he, and all of a sudden Whatsisface is yelling and Sera’s hazy field of vision turns to a flood of bright red.

Takes a moment for the world to right itself after that, for Sera to get her head back on and figure out what just happened. He’s got the knife in his leg, Whatsisface, and he’s bleeding real hard. Like, proper hard, hard enough that even Sera kind of worries, but that’s all the time she has for thinking and processing and all that waste-of-time shite, because it’s still going on and now it’s on her.

So, yeah. Doesn’t think, can’t think, can’t afford to bloody think; she lashes out, as hard as she can. Puts all her strength on her uninjured side; it’s not her strongest, but it’s the only way she can do anything at all. Still hurts like dying, though, so bad she can’t see, because apparently it’s not possible to take a swing, no matter how careful, without using your whole frigging body. Never knew that before, but she bloody knows it now because the pain goes through her like nothing she’s ever known, blind and shaking and screaming, like raw full-on _screaming_.

Can’t end it there, though. Has to keep going, has to push through it or they’re both dead, or Whatsisface frigging wins and she really is as worthless as his sort think. Lashes out again, and again. Finds the Tevinter tit, knuckles blooming with a different kind of pain when she connects, a knee or a face or some other bony something; doesn’t matter what, as long as it’s something, as long as it works. He goes down, that’s the important part, a _thunk_ and a groan and a litany of Tevene curses.

She’s gasping, barely conscious, but apparently this is a teamwork kind of fight because Whatsisface steps in to finish it off like it’s no big deal at all. Apparently Dalish really don’t fuck around, because even though he’s bleeding something awful, he doesn’t hesitate now that the opening is there in front of him. Two fists together, smashes him in the face, and that’s it, that’s really properly _it_.

Over, for sure this time. Like, really over, both of them unconscious. The relief is overwhelming, but not nearly as much as the pain, and Sera can’t hold it back any more, can’t keep herself upright. Doesn’t care that it makes her weak, doesn’t care that it makes her stupid and worthless and less than him; it’s beaten her, the stupid pain, and she has no choice but to let it, let it win. Falls forward right then and there, face-first onto the ground, and sobs.

Not emotion, not even relief, it’s just pain, pain, _pain_ , and of course the shudders and the choked-out tears just make it even worse, tearing through the places that hurt like a frigging stampede. Can’t stop, can’t control herself, not until she feels a hand drop down onto her shoulder and the momentary flash of terror overrides everything else.

Not them, though, just Hunter Whatsisface — _Olafin_ — and she squints up at him through the blur of tears.

“Not bad,” he says, real quiet.

Sera grits her teeth, forces back the pain as best she can. “Piss… _off_.”

He studies her for a moment, no more, then bows his head. Like she’s earned it, yeah? Like she’s bought herself a moment’s privacy by almost bloody killing herself.

“As you wish,” he says, in proper normal common, and leaves her be.

Sera watches, bleary and miserable, as he sets to work binding the Tevinters. Tears off his shirt in lieu of enough leftover rope, and ties them to the trees; probably won’t hold them for long, but dazed and barely conscious as they are right now, they don’t put up much of a fight in the moment that matters. Good enough, Sera figures, and bites down another wave of tears.

When he’s sure they’re secure, he sets to work fixing up his leg. Stops the bleeding with gritted teeth, pressing down hard and binding it tight. Sera recognises the way he does it, practiced and clinical and like he’s done this shit a thousand times before. Remembers doing the same thing herself, binding her own wounds in exactly the same way back in Denerim, back in Val Royeaux, back in all the haunting places she haunted growing up, those dirty dark places where fights were fair and didn’t involve fireballs.

Hears herself blurt it out, the question in her head, before her brain has a chance to catch up and realise it’s stupid. “You lived on the streets too?”

He stares at her. Confusion, yeah, but only for a second, and then it’s all pity and shame, the words that still cut.

“No.” Draws it out real long, like he’s picking his words carefully. “We Dalish learn such skills young. Never know when a beast might venture too close looking for a fight…” His eyes go dark, dangerous. “Or one of your _shems_.”

Sera bristles, hisses through her teeth. Can’t exactly argue, can she, and that just makes it worse. She’s heard enough cries of _‘knife-ear’_ herself, and earned more than a few hard kicks in soft places just for being one of them. His people are no better, she knows, but she’s not feeling well enough to have that fight again now. He’d win if she tried, because he’s tougher than she is, because he’s bigger and stronger and frigging _better_ than her.

He has a place where he belongs, a group of people, family or friends or whatever, and he’d throw down in a heartbeat to protect their frigging honour. He’ll come out teeth and claws to defend his people, his _clan_ , and what does Sera have in return? Elves calling her _‘flat-ear’_ on one side, humans calling her _‘knife-ear’_ on the other, and neither of them are worth spilling blood over. The only person she wants to defend is herself, but what chance does she have of doing that when both sides are full of tits and arses and people with the wrong shaped ears?

So, yeah. Shakes her head, mutters a few choice words, and lets it go.

“Now, then,” he says, acknowledging her silence with a smile. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to put some space between us and our captors while they’re still docile. You’re welcome to stay here if you like, friend, but I’m—”

“Not your pissing friend!”

He sighs. “Sera, then. By your attitude, Sera, I’d wager you don’t have many friends to go around. Why so quick to turn one aside?”

“None of your business.”

Stings, though, the way he can read her. He’s never lived on the streets, sure, but he sees the worthlessness in her as easy as anything, and Sera can tell it’s not just because they’re different, not just because she’s not Dalish and special and wonderful like him, tattooed and self-righteous and all the rest of it. No, it’s more like the way Solas looks at her, only inverted, sort of backwards, like he’s un-seeing all the shit that Solas insists he sees, all that special elfy whatever that makes him get all soft and sad-eyed when he looks at her.

 _Don’t have many friends_. Probably right about that, to be honest. The particular kind of Friends that she keeps aren’t the kind she’d really call _friends_ , not in the way he means, but that’s not her frigging fault, is it? Not her fault that the humans think her ears are too big and the elves think they’re too small. Not her fault that she’s not good enough for either side, that they both call her different names but wear the same damn face when they say them, sneer in the same parts of their mouths, use the same frigging voices. Not her fault that everyone’s already got it into their head to hate her before she’s even got a word out. Not her fault that the only kind of friend she knows is the criminal kind, pranksters and low-lives, that the only people who’ll have her are the ones who don’t ever have to see her stupid face.

He sighs. Sounds like he’s miles away, but he can’t be because the next thing she knows, his hand is back there on her shoulder, as gentle as anything, like he’s scared he’ll break her with just the slightest touch. The way she feels right now it’s not unlikely, and _Maker_ , she hates that he knows it.

“Look. Can you stand on your own, or…” Trails off a little there, because with his leg the way it is, they don’t exactly have a lot of options to toss around. “Do you need help?”

“Need a lot of things,” Sera grumbles. “But not that. Not from you.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, but she knows he can see through right her.

Sera ignores his tone, ignores his touch. Proves that she can handle this, handle herself, handle whatever the world throws at her. No idea how she manages it, how she gets up onto her feet without passing out, but she suspects it’s more a point of stubbornness than anything else. He’s watching her, and she can’t make out the look on his face through the sweat and tears stinging in her eyes, but she can see the way he’s swaying, favouring his good leg and sucking in his breath. He’s hurt too now, but he’s standing just fine on his own, and if some fucking Dalish pissbag can do it, then Sera can frigging do it too.

Breathes when she’s upright. Breathes and breathes and waits for her body to settle and _breathes_. Turns when she’s brave enough, follows the line of the horizon with her eyes, slow and steady. It hurts like nothing she can imagine, nothing she can put into words, but she does it. Stands, yeah, and moves and looks, and if she can manage all that, then she can walk too. She can get out of here, get back to camp, get herself free. She can do it, with or without him. Can, and bloody will.

“Told you,” she manages. One step. Another. A third. Slow, steady, but moving. _Andraste_ , she’s good. Really frigging good, and if she had the breath to spare she’d laugh. “Not… not waiting for you… you elfy… prick… so try… to keep up… yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he chuckles, like a knife-wound through the frigging leg is nothing, like this just a stroll through the frigging flowers.

Sera swallows. Another step. Another. Feels like fire tearing through her, pulling and tearing on the motion then shuddering and jolting on the impact; feels like her skin’s been set alight all over again, like she’ll die if she keeps going, but she will. Oh, yeah, she will. Frigging has to. No chance better than this, right? No chance better, and she’ll be made worse than a slave before she lets it pass. So she has to. Has to. _Has to_.

“You’d better…” she grits out, and though he acknowledges they both know she’s not really talking to him at all.

*

For a while, they argue almost more than they move.

Problem is, neither of them are strong enough to go it alone; they’re pretty much supporting each other at this point, and every step’s a struggle for them both. Hunter Olaf-Whatsisface naturally wants to run off and find his precious clan, warn them about the Tevinters or whatever, like that’ll do anyone any good. Fair enough, really, from his perspective, but Sera has no intention of dealing with the fucking Dalish ever again; she’ll go back to the bloody Tevinters before she goes back to them, and she doesn’t care how bad it hurts.

“Inquisition camp’s closer,” she grits out, spitting on the ground.

“I doubt that. And, in any case, the People—”

“Piss on your ‘People’.” Makes it real clear this isn’t a point for debate. “Why not, right? They’d piss on me too, if I went back there.”

“I doubt that’s true,” he says. “Once they learn of your courage—”

“Oh, what? You think I want you to frigging vouch for me? Just wave a hand, tell them it’s okay? We’re ‘friends’ now or whatever, so never mind that silly little ‘waking the dead’ thing…” Shakes her head, then hisses when her body protests. “No frigging way.”

“Waking the dead?” he echoes, confused. “You speak of Var Bellanaris?”

“Or whatever.” Waves a hand, or tries to, and definitely doesn’t elaborate. He’s holding her upright rather more than she’s doing the same to him, and it scares her more than she’d ever admit to think of him letting go, leaving her to crawl along on her own. “Not like it frigging matters, anyway. Point is, I’m dirt to your clan.”

“You helped to rescue one of their own. They would—”

“I don’t _care_.” Damn near shouting it, face hot with tears; between the shame and the pain it’s all she can do not to frigging break down completely. “Don’t want nothing to do with your ‘People’. Not your clan, not no other clans. Not nothing.”

“It’s a shame to hear that.” Sounds like he means it, and that just makes it a thousand times worse. “We don’t think much of your kind, it’s true, but even we acknowledge that extenuating circumstances sometimes…” Trails off, though, maybe feeling the way she’s going tense, muscles locking up in a way that has nothing to do with the searing in her side. Maybe sensing, too, that she didn’t understand more than two words of all that shite. “Ah, but now isn’t the time. Still, though, the question remains. My people need to know about this Tevinter threat, and I must…”

“With a busted leg? Fat lot of good you’d do.”

He sighs. “A fair point, I suppose.”

“Whatever. Point is, they’ll be fine on their own, yeah?” Weird, how she almost makes an effort to sound sincere. “Inquisition’s got people. We can help, if you’re not too much of a tit to take it from some flat-ear _shem_ -lover or whatever.”

“A generous—”

“Shut it.” She scans the horizon, vision blurred with tears and sweat and frustration. “Hour or so that way, maybe. My people, not yours. You want to piss off back to your precious clan or whatever, you go right ahead, but I’m not. Never needed your bloody help, and I don’t need it now.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Drops it, though. Maybe he figures the Inquisition camp is safer, or maybe he just takes her at her word, believes her when she says her people can help his. Then again, maybe he’s just more like her than he wants to admit; she’s noticed that he’s slumping against her good side more often now, that he’s wincing more and more when he steps down on his bad leg, that his shoulders shake under the strain when he’s supporting her. He’s getting bad, yeah, enough that she doesn’t even mention how much it hurts her when he needs the support, the little tug on her burned-up side when he leans on the good one, the way she’s hyper-aware of every shift in every part of her body. They’re both injured, yeah, both damn near helpless, and neither one of them is in any condition to try and go it alone. They won’t get much further together; alone, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

So, yeah, on they go. Together, by necessity. On and on and on, and it’s only an hour or so, just like she said, but _Andraste_ , it feels like forever.

Leaves her bent double more than once, squeezing out curses through clenched teeth, choking and retching and biting back tears when the pain gets too much. Makes her so frigging angry, it does, because as well as the stupid frigging elfy Dalish whatever judging her every move, she knows she’s better than this. Knows she should be, anyway.

She’s used to taking hits, yeah? Blood, bruises, all sorts; she knows how to take them, knows how to bite down when the pain hits, and move on when it’s past. Knows how to push through anything that hurts, knows what it’s like to have no choice, to push herself past breaking point because the alternative is dying or worse. Knows it as well as she knows her own frigging name, yeah, because that’s what being a _flat-ear_ got her.

It’s the Inquisition’s fault, she thinks; they’ve made her soft. Gotten her weak and stupid, used to having healers and surgeons and pretty white bandages all on hand at a moment’s notice. The slightest little cut, and there’s a dozen idiots crowding round, checking for this and that and whatever. She’s used to getting treated right away, used to getting bandaged and healed up before she ever needs to get up and move, before she ever needs to fight and run and all that shite, before any of _this_ ever happens. Gotten used to being bloody pampered, she has, and now she’s paying the price.

Weak. Soft. Stupid. She can’t remember how to block it out, how to pretend the pain isn’t there, how to stay on her feet, keep putting one in front of the other, how to keep breathing when every part of her is on fire. Can’t remember how to tourniquet a leg pouring blood, how to yank out a knife in a way that’s safe, how to do any of the shit that Whatsisface did so easily. Can’t remember anything, and there’s that damn Dalish prick, doing everything just perfect, like he earned it, like he bled and broke and damn near died to learn those lessons, like he’s lived half the life she has.

Didn’t. Hasn’t. _Couldn’t_. Frolicking about in the woods or whatever, you don’t learn survival. You don’t learn shit like this, and he shouldn’t be better than her. He shouldn’t be stronger, tougher, _more_. Leaves a bad taste in her mouth, bile that tastes like burning, the kind she spits on the ground when the pain wrenches her stomach into a knot, like the blinding searing heat in her side, like all the parts of her she can’t control, the parts that shake and shudder and want to sob. She should be the strong one, the tough one; she should be the one that’s better. Should be able to prove that she’s worth more than any fucking Dalish, but she’s not and she can’t and it _hurts_.

An hour or so. It’s a long, long time, and it damn near kills her.

Sera knows where she’s going, and Olaf-Whatsisface seems content to stumble along beside her, bracing on his good leg when he can, trying a little too hard not to let her see that he’s in pain as well. Doesn’t mention his precious clan again, and Sera’s real grateful for that; she’s drenched with sweat, shaking, and her body’s on the brink of giving in entirely. She’s in no condition to fight any more, and if he picked right now to push it she knows she’d just give in. Give him anything he wants, frigging anything, if he’ll just make it stop.

Weird, kind of, the way they support each other. The exertion’s showing through in them both now, and there’s very little room for talking between her choked-out cries and his stoic little grunts. At one point, he suggests they take a break, find something to eat, some water, anything to make it less excruciating; he’s raspy, voice all but gone, but Sera shakes her head and presses on. The idea’s a good one, in truth; she’d give anything for a good meal and a proper drink, just like he would, but she’s been here, done that, and maybe her street-born steel isn’t as far gone as she thought it was, because she knows that they can’t stop now. Knows it as surely as she’s ever known anything: if they stop, even for a second, they’ll never start up again. Can’t. They’ve been running on nothing for what feels like forever; they stop now, that nothing will die and so will they.

So they don’t. Want to, yeah. _Need_ to, yeah. But they don’t.

On and on and on, and yeah, the Inquisition camp is only an hour or so away, but an hour is a really long time when every step is torture. Stumbling, staggering, holding each other upright, and it’s hard to know which of the two of them is worse off in a given moment; she’s got the pain, feels like all of it, but he’s still bleeding, even through his best efforts to keep it stemmed, and that’s a killer just as true. An hour or so, sure, but _Maker_ , it’s an eternity. She knows it’s close, knows it has to be, knows it, but every step is like dying and it feels like they’ll never get there, feels like another hundred hours won’t get them there, like a frigging lifetime wouldn’t get them there.

It does. Not a lifetime, though it feels like it. Just an hour or so, it really is, and _yes, yes, yes_ , it gets them there.

She recognises it by its shadows, the peaks of the tents and tables, the silhouettes milling about. Weird, that; could be anyone, maybe even another camp of frigging Tevinters, but she knows it’s not. Down in her bones, knows it; right down in her soul, _knows it_. Doesn’t need to think about it, doesn’t feel even a moment of doubt, not even the least little flicker. She sees the shapes, the shadows, the silhouettes, and she knows.

_Home._

Well, home for her, anyway. Hunter Prickface is another issue entirely, but it’s not her problem any more. She’s too tired to care; too tired and in too much pain and too damn broken. Let the Inquisition people patch him up, yeah, let frigging Lavellan fall down at his frigging feet, worship the ground he walks on, piss elfy words out her mouth, whatever those idiots do at times like this. Let them dance under the moon praying for rain or whatever; Sera doesn’t care. All she wants is Solas and his stupid healing spells to knock her out and take away the pain.

That says a lot about how bad she is, doesn’t it? Even let frigging _Solas_ put his hands on her if that’s what it takes.

He’s not there, though. Doesn’t need to get close to see it; she’d recognise that big bald head from the other side of Thedas. There’s a couple of figures, she can tell, but she’s pretty sure Solas and Lavellan aren’t there. No Dorian either, and picturing the three of them running around together almost makes her laugh; she can only imagine how cranky the poor little flappy-robe must be, following Team Elven Glory around the arse end of nowhere without Sera around to keep him sane.

Still, even without a warm welcome, the relief damn near knocks her off her feet. Floods right through her, hits her like a blow. Kind of like eating too much sugar and feeling her thoughts start to vibrate, like that ‘second wind’ thing Cassandra talks about sometimes when she’s telling stories about her big scary battles with dragons and templars and whatever. That moment, yeah, when everything seems lost but then it’s not, that soul-shattering moment where she knows she’s not going to die, knows it’s almost over, knows she’s safe, safe, _safe_ …

Forgets herself. Forgets the pain, forgets that she can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. Forgets Whatsisface too, poor bastard, and doesn’t even register the way he cries out as she pulls away, the low moan as he falls to the floor, the way he clutches his leg. Doesn’t even notice him at all, because she’s here, she’s so close. _Home_ , yeah, right there in front of her, and even though she can barely stand, still somehow she’s running. Like, really proper _running_ , and she can feel the burn on her side screaming and tugging and tearing, can feel every molecule in her body protesting, but she doesn’t care. She’s here, she’s safe, she’s _home_.

Crosses the threshold with a cry, a choked animal howl, almost getting tangled up in that fancy Inquisition flag. She can feels everyone’s eyes on her, Whatsisface way back there, still gasping and groaning, and the Inquisition’s people too, the requisitions officer that annoys Lavellan so much, and that pretty dwarf scout, Harding, and they’re looking at her like she’s a ghost, like she’s not real, only she _is_. She’s real and she’s here, and everything’s so wonderful, so frigging wonderful…

“Sera!”

Harding, voice high with surprise. Looks like she’s seen a ghost, and Sera tries to laugh, tries to say _‘of course it’s me, you daft tit, who’d you think it was?’_ , only the words won’t come. She can feel the ground start to pitch and sway under her feet, feel the adrenaline bleed out of her (because, yeah, she’s _safe_ , and she doesn’t need to run any more, doesn’t need to stand up, and _oh piss_ her body knows that); her head’s starting to throb, vision spinning, and _oh piss oh shite_ , she knows what comes next. Feels the world start to close in, and laughs like a loony because she knows it doesn’t matter.

“Sera?” Harding again, speaking real slow, real careful, like Sera’s some delicate elf flower. “Sera, what _happened_?”

Sera laughs again, louder. “Funny story…”

And then Harding’s right there, arms out, catching her as she falls, catching her and holding her, and _oh,_ she’s strong for someone so small, and _oh,_ it’s warm in her arms, so warm she can barely even feel the pain any more, and _oh, oh, oh,_ it’s good to be home.

 _Home_ , she thinks, again and again. _Home_ , and the last thing she sees as it all fades to black is the Maker’s name on a dwarven tongue.

*


	3. Praise The Oneness, Praise The Lie

*

Water on her lips, something cold and sticky on her side, a voice murmuring in her ear.

She wakes fast this time, lurches halfway upright almost before her body is fully aware, before she has a chance to realise it’s a bad idea, to remember the pain. It hits a moment later, as sure as anything, but it’s nothing like it was, nothing like the searing and screaming and sobbing, nothing like the torture that drove her almost dead. There’s no healing, she can tell, but someone’s definitely done something; it’s like half her body is half-numb, like that weird feeling when her foot falls asleep, only it’s spreading all through her.

“Wha…?”

“Hey, you’re awake!” Scout Harding, voice hoarse. She sounds happy, though, and it makes Sera smile through her confused haze. “How does that feel?”

Sera waits a few more moments before trying to move again. Has to be sure, yeah, has to be absolutely sure that moving won’t tear her apart again. Better to be safe, take it easy. Waits, breathes, swallows, and it’s only when she’s really sure, like proper sure she won’t die, that she allows herself a careful experimental stretch. Pain’s still there, definitely; it flares, but it’s almost bearable. After everything she went through just to get here, it’s all she can do just to keep from sobbing with relief.

Forces down the feeling, the tears, focuses on the important question. “Wha… what’d you do to me?”

“Oh, don’t get your smalls in a tangle.” There’s laughter in her voice, and Sera turns around as best she can to find her face. Freckled, sun-red, smiling. That’s Harding all over, that is, and her heart swells all over again at the sight of her. “It’s nothing dangerous, don’t worry.”

Sera snorts. “Wasn’t.”

“Good. Because we were. Worried. About you. And…” Cuts herself off, like she’s worried it’s getting too personal, too much for Sera to handle five seconds after coming around. Might be, yeah, but it feels so good she can’t bring herself to mind. “And you need to take it easy, all right? So don’t go getting any ideas about running off or doing anything silly. But for the time being…”

She shrugs, raises a hand; it’s sticky, stained with a greenish paste; Sera thinks about asking what it is, but she has a sneaking suspicion she’d rather not know. “Ugh.”

“I know.” She wrinkles her nose, freckles everywhere. “It’s one of Sister Leliana’s recipes. Between this and the birds, I’m starting to wonder if she has no sense of smell.” Doesn’t stop her going at it again, though, smearing another layer of the stuff over the blistered skin at Sera’s side. “It’s not proper healing, though, so don’t get too excited. More like a numbing agent… or so I’m told. Should keep you in one piece until Solas gets back, though, so long as you take it easy and don’t move about too much.”

“Right.” Sera rolls her eyes. “Sure. Whatever, mum.”

Harding laughs again, flicks her forehead with a paste-covered finger. “Enough with that tone, you.”

“Fine,” Sera mutters, but it’s real hard not to smile.

Closes her eyes again, breathes through her nose. Feels real good to be back, safe and sound and home, to not have to worry about moving and fighting and doing anything. It’s still kind of new to her, this part, the part where she gets to lie on a bedroll and take it easy while someone else patches her up, talks to her, takes care of her. As wuick as her street-smarts were to abandon her when she needs them, they shout real loud in moments like this, making sure she remembers how much of a luxury they are. All too easy to get seduced by it, to forget what it was like before the Inquisition, before shit like this was normal, back when she needed to find a safe place, hide out in the dark all alone, spend weeks biting down on her wrist and waiting for the pain to end.

None of that now. Not any more. Likes to imagine, sometimes, a future where it’s _never again_ , but that’s too much, too idealistic. Just got to live in the here and now, yeah? Just got to enjoy it while she has it.

Harding’s hands feel real good against her side. The paste is cool where her skin burns hot, where she remembers the searing and screaming, the sweat striking like a lash; it makes her jaw tighten to remember how it felt before, the torture of breathing, of walking, of moving at all, how much it felt like dying. Makes her eyes sting more than a little, tears pricking, and she hates that she’s become so weak, that those tears come so easily to her now.

“Easy, now.” Harding again. Voice soft, but not condescending, not like Solas or Vivienne get when they do their healing shite, like it’s so frigging stupid to be scared, like it’s not normal to cringe when their hands start to glow, like it’s so frigging childish to cry when she’s in pain. Sera likes this better, the softness and the sweetness, the way she doesn’t stop smiling. “Easy, all right?”

“Easy for you, maybe.” Sera focuses on the fight, the conflict, all the little ways she can pretend she’s strong even when they both know she’s not. “You’re not the one who took a frigging fireball to the face.”

“Neither did you.” A laugh, light and lilting, and _Andraste_ , Sera had forgotten how much she likes the little dwarf. “Looks like you took a fist or two, though. Nice bruises, by the way.”

“Ugh.” She wonders, briefly if there’s any part left in her that hasn’t been roughed up, any part of her that won’t be making her miserable for the foreseeable future. “Suppose you’ve got a trick for them too?”

“Sure. Nothing you’d want your friend to see, though.”

She’s teasing, probably, and Sera almost grins, but the reminder is an unpleasant one, Hunter Whatsisface and all the ways he’s better than her. The laughter dies in a flash, and Sera hisses a curse through her teeth. “Survived, then, did he?”

“You betcha. Charming fellow, by the way. Just lovely.”

Sera growls a warning, and opens her eyes. Looks around the camp, like properly looks around for the first time since she stumbled back here. And, yeah, there is he, sitting by the fire like he frigging owns the place, Olaf-Whatsisface in the flesh. He’s got his back to her, and he’s working his way through a hunk of meat that’s almost as big as his stupid elfy head. Not exactly the kind of homecoming she’d hoped for, to be honest, and she can’t quite hide her aggravation as she glares down at Harding.

“Fucking Dalish,” she says aloud. “Thought he’d be gone by now. Back to his clan or whatever.”

Harding shrugs. “I told him Solas could help with his leg.” Narrows her eyes, though, like she can see how much it’s bothering Sera; she can’t possibly understand why, Sera knows, all the nuances and mess that goes with the stupid elfy-elf Dalish thing, but she looks like she’s making a good go of trying to figure it out. “That’s… all right, isn’t it?”

“Fine,” Sera mutters again. She lies back down, moody and sullen as a child, and rolls over onto her good side. Convenient, the way it stops her from having to look at either one of them. “Whatever, yeah?”

“Sera…”

“Look, just drop it, okay? Just… go back to whatever it is you were doing.” Closes her eyes, bites her tongue, washes the bitter taste from her mouth, her memories, tries to force a smile even though she knows no-one will see it. “Where’s Her Elfiness, anyway?”

“The Inquisitor?” She hums, thoughtful and guarded, like she’s not exactly happy about Sera changing the subject so sharply, but isn’t quite brave enough to push it any further while she’s still injured. “Out looking for you, silly. You had us all really worried, you know. Even Solas.”

Sera snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“No, really. At one point, I even heard him say it would be a _‘loss to the Inquisition’_ if anything happened to you.” Sera splutters her disbelief, but doesn’t turn around. “He did! In those exact words.”

“Like piss.”

“Hand on my heart,” Harding says, all enthusiastic and shit. “You know, I think you two get on better than either of you want to admit. Just my opinion…”

Opinion or not, it makes Sera flinch. Like, properly flinch, in a way that jolts through her whole body; her burned-up side protests, the pain cutting through even the numbing paste, through everything; her brain turns to mush for a second or two, to nonsense and chaos and she can’t see anything but flashing stars and pulsing lights. Leaves her breathless when she’s done, and of course that makes her angry.

“Don’t talk shite about things you don’t know.” Keeps her voice low, but there’s an edge to it that Harding doesn’t miss.

“I…” A brief pause, no more than a few seconds, then she sighs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry. Just thought it might make you feel better, you know?”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t.” _Not him_ , she thinks. _Not that, not now_. “Makes it worse.”

“Yeah.” Harding sighs again, shakes her head. “Got that. Sorry.”

Sera shakes her head too, fingers tightening to fists at her sides. Almost thinks about explaining it, talking it through like a functional adult or whatever. Harding might not get it, but she wouldn’t judge either, and if there’s anyone out there Sera could stomach choking out the gory details to, it’s her. Tempting, at least for a bit, the thought of laying it all out there, all the little ways that Solas makes her head hurt, all the little ways he makes her question everything, doubt herself. Thinks about it, yeah, but she doesn’t. Can’t get the words out, for one, and with Hunter Whatsisface of the Dalish Elitists’ Club right there on the other side of the camp it’s more than she can do to lay herself out there, expose herself so completely.

“Whatever,” she says instead. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Stupid.”

“I wouldn’t…” But, yeah, maybe she picks up on Sera’s internal conflict, or some of it at least; has to realise that this isn’t the time or the place to have this discussion, because she backs off before she even starts. “Well, I guess you’d know. But, hey. If you want to talk about it…”

“Right.” Sera swallows over the lump in her throat. “That, yeah.”

Harding makes a weird noise, like she’s clearing her throat or trying not to sigh again, hard to tell which. “Anyway. You should get some rest, I guess. I’m sure the others will be back soon. And when they are…”

“Yeah.”

Wishes she didn’t sound so defeated, but that’s exactly how she feels. Defeated, yeah, and worn down and broken and… well, like she really does need to rest. Wonders how many lines the bruises have added to her face, wonders if they make her look as tired as she suddenly feels. Wonders a lot of things, but doesn’t say anything.

Funny, how hate is so much more exhausting than hurt.

*

It’s maybe a couple of hours before the others get back.

They’re sweaty and dirty, all three of them, and they look about as drained and miserable as Sera feels. They light right up when they see her, though, like some massive weight’s been lifted off their shoulders, like they really care that frigging much. Must do, she supposes, to be out there searching for her for hours on end, but still even with the truth of it staring her right in the face it’s hard to really believe.

And, yeah, maybe there really is something in Harding’s shite about Solas after all, because even he can’t hide his relief; it’s palpable as he rushes to her side, almost overwhelming. He doesn’t even stop to greet Harding or the requisitions officer, doesn’t even stop to throw his staff down, doesn’t even notice that there’s a great big bloody Dalish sitting _right there_. Doesn’t do anything, does he? Doesn’t see anything but her.

“You’re wounded,” he says, in the very same breath as Dorian blurts out, a little less tactfully, “What were you _thinking_ , you silly girl?”

Sera looks from one to the other, not sure who to answer first; Solas is looking very serious, but Dorian looks like he’s going to take a swing at her if she doesn’t answer him. Settles for “Shut it, you,” in the end, because that one could work just as well on either of them.

Harding backs off when Solas kneels beside her. There’s a reluctance in the way she moves, like she’s enjoying the closeness, but apparently Sole-arse needs room to work his stupid magic or whatever. It’s about the last thing Sera wants, to be honest, more elf and less smooshy smiling dwarf, but if it’ll take away the pain once and for all, she’ll deal with it.

Still, when he gets close, reaches out with glowy hands, she finds herself flinching just like she always does, terrified in spite of herself. Frigging _magic_ , always turns her stupid, and she can barely even remember the blinding whiteout agony that made her want this. Easier to be frightened now, with Harding’s paste numbing the pain, harder to remember what it felt like, hurting so much that she’d almost beg for frigging magic if it would just make it stop. That pain isn’t there any more, and the pain she’s got is bearable, endurable so long as she keeps her teeth clenched. Too close to normal now, and that makes the magic scary again.

“Watch what you’re doing with that stuff,” she says, curling up tight.

“Do not fret, child.” Doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t even sound annoyed; that’s got to be a first. “I have, as you well know, done this many times before.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t frig it up,” Sera mutters, and balls her fists.

“True enough. But I shall do my best to leave you in one piece.” He chuckles, lips quirking into something like a smirk. “This time, at least.”

He’s trying to get a rise out of her, she knows, but it’s really not working. Sera’s too afraid, too frigging miserable, and she just shuts her eyes tight and ignores him. Tries not to burst into tears when she feels his magic rippling across her skin, cool and warm at the same time, soothing and scary and everything, tries not to let him see she’s still as small and stupid as ever.

She can hear them all murmuring to each other, Lavellan and Dorian and Elfy Whatsisface Elfington. All of them, yeah, and she knows they’re all staring. Hates herself for giving them a show; hates that she got herself into this state in the first place, hates that even after facing down fireball-chucking Tevinters, spitting in their faces even in pain, still somehow a flicker of coloured light and the press of elven fingertips is enough to paralyse her with fear. Stupid, yeah, and now everyone knows it.

Bites down on a curse, then another, and then she feels it. A warm hand pressing gently on her own, callouses on the palm where it covers her knuckles, fingers light and familiar against the backs of her own.

Sera cracks one eye open just enough to find the face. Harding, yeah, still smiling, though this time it’s sad and soft. _Harding_ , mouth shaping words that the others can’t see, and Sera opens up her fists, accepts the gesture for what it is, lets stubby fingers wrap tightly around her own, squeeze every time the fear grips her guts.

It’s over pretty quick, or maybe it just feels quicker now because Harding’s fingers are warm and she’s whispering those soundless little encouragements in her ear. Distracting as anything, in the best possible way, and Sera finds that she’s almost a little regretful when it’s over, when Solas takes his hands back and Harding follows suit. Solas has a studious look on his face, serious and stupid, and Sera hisses at the closeness when he leans in to study his handiwork and check the state of the wound. Sensible, sure, but it’d be real nice of him to ask for permission first.

“You’ll need some time to recuperate,” he says, as if she bloody asked. Turns to the Inquisitor; she’s still muttering with Whatsisface by the fire, but she stops when he clears his throat. “I’d recommend a day at the very least,” he goes on, more to her than Sera. “No doubt our work with the Dalish will necessitate our staying in the area a while longer yet, but in any case…”

“Sitting right here,” Sera mutters. “Me. Not her.”

“As you wish,” Solas says, and turns back to her. “A day, _at the very least_.” Repeats it real slow, like she’s stupid and needs every frigging syllable enunciated. “That means no fighting, Sera. And no running off on your own. You must…”

Trails off, all pointed and shit, and Sera rolls her eyes. “Fine. Great. No fighting, no running, no fun. Whatever.”

Lavellan chuckles, a wan little sound, then shrugs. “I suppose it’ll keep her out of trouble, at least,” she says, but there’s none of her usual venom in the way she says it. Turns to Sera, then, and forces a smile; it’s not a proper one, not like Harding’s, but it’s a far cry from the last time they saw each other, and Sera sort of appreciates the effort. “How does it feel?”

A good question, and Sera tests with a quick stretch. A little tug and a flicker of pain, but that’s about it. She can’t even remember any more, how it must have felt before, how bad it must have been to leave her choking like it did, to leave her breathless and crying and pathetic. Can’t remember much of anything, to be honest, but still the relief is palpable. And, yeah, maybe that’s why she doesn’t put on a show, doesn’t even bother trying to play it cool and snarky and whatever else.

“All right, I guess,” she says; Harding leans in, touches her hand again, and Sera feels heat in places that aren’t anywhere near her side. “So you can stop hovering now, yeah? All’s well that ends well or whatever.”

Dorian snorts. “So reassuring that a little brush with death hasn’t dampened your flair for the eloquent.”

“Brush with death, my arse,” Sera gripes; makes her sullen, his word choice, but she can’t say why. Normally she’d be milking it, making out like she’s some kind of big hero for surviving like she did, but it doesn’t feel that way at all, and even just thinking of playing along makes her stomach go sour with shame. “Wasn’t nothing.”

Harding laughs. “Uh huh. ‘Nothing’. So that little ‘fainting in my arms’ thing…”

“Was frigging _nothing_. You deaf or just stupid?”

The smile falls off Harding’s face as quick as anything. “Uh…”

“Just drop it, yeah?” She’s angry now, in a way that doesn’t really tally with the others’ gentle teasing; can’t really explain it, and she’s not so sure she wants to, so she swings to her feet instead. A ghost of pain flares up at her side, but it’s barely noticeable at all now, and she doesn’t even bother trying to ignore it. “Frigging idiots, the bloody lot of you.”

Harding looks about ready to cry, like she knows she’s done something stupid but still can’t understand what, can’t figure out how it all escalating so quickly. “Sera, come on. I didn’t—”

“Shut it. Don’t want to hear.”

And, yeah, she doesn’t. Not from her, not from Dorian, and definitely not from frigging Lavellan. If she hears one more frigging word about brushes with death or taking it easy or whatever other bullshit they’re shoving down her throat, she’s going to do something that’ll make Solas go _‘tsk’_ and insist that she take better care of herself. And, yeah, she really cannot deal with his frigging voice right now.

They’re not going to let her leave the camp this time, she can tell, and she wouldn’t want to even if they did. It’s kind of a point of principle, yeah, but it’s more than that too; there’s a part of her that’s still scared. Been through worse, definitely, but an ordeal is still an ordeal, and there’s a part of her that seizes up with panic at even just the idea of leaving here now that she knows she’s finally safe.

Sera isn’t normally the kind to dwell on bad experiences, to paint her suffering as trauma and lose herself in bad memories or whatever; she’s not the kind to cling to hurts that have already healed, hurts like this one, but that doesn’t make it easy. Might not be able to remember how bad the pain was at its worst — funny, how memory works — but she remembers the moment it hit. Remembers the heat at her side, the fireball slamming into her, the sudden _crack_ as her footing slipped and her head hit the rock. Remembers waking real slow, the ropes cutting into her wrists, the tree-bark itching-rough against her back. Remembers the look on Whatsisface’s face every time the pain got to her, remembers Tevinter fists in her face, the point of a knife under her jaw, the panic when they got too close. Asked for it, sure, but that didn’t make it any less awful.

Remembers the anger too. Not just the fear, the panic, but the rage. Remembers looking at Whatsisface and seeing his Dalish friends, the arses who kicked her out. It hurt, burning almost hotter than the welt across her side. Afraid of what the Tevinters would do to her, sure, but so frigging angry when she could practically hear Whatsisface thinking _‘what would they want with a flat-ear like you?’_. Wanted to take those frigging Tevinters by the throat, not to hurt them but to shake them like Lavellan shook her back at the burial ground, demand that they tell the fucking Dalish that she _is_ a frigging elf, that her ears would sell just as well as his, that all elves are elfy-elves so far as frigging slavers are concerned. Hated so much that she’s worth more to the Tevinter pricks who would sell and abuse her, than the so-called ‘People’ that Solas insists are her own.

Too raw, yeah. All of it. Too visceral, and too frigging _present_. Maybe once they’re out of here she’ll be able to forget, put it behind her, laugh it off like she does everything else, but right now it turns her stomach. Turns her chest too, a kick between her ribs that strikes harder than she’d care to admit. Afraid of Tevinters, yeah, getting burned up and tied down and all that shite, and so frigging angry to find her life in the hands of some Dalish dick who didn’t think she was worth it.

She doesn’t leave camp, no, but she does storms into one of the tents. Safe here, and even though she doubts Lavellan and the others will leave her alone for long, at the very least it makes her feel better that they’re there. Helps her to unwind, catch her breath, remembering that any Tevinter tosser or Dalish prick that comes after her will have to go through the frigging Inquisition first.

It’ll do. Tomorrow, it probably won’t. But for today, scared and angry and upset… for today, yeah. It’ll do.

*

Of course, it’s frigging Sole-arse who interrupts first.

Leaves her alone for a while, yeah, but apparently he can’t help himself. He doesn’t announce himself or anything, doesn’t clear his throat and say _‘excuse me’_ or whatever that would be in frigging elven, doesn’t even so much as knock on the door. Not that there is any door to knock on, really, but that’s not the bloody point.

Point is, they’re a long way away from the shore now, from the moment where he sat down a dozen paces away because he knew she needed her space. A long, long way from there, and this time he just barges right in like he owns the place, like her personal space isn’t worth a damn thing. Sera opens her mouth, all ready to yell at him, tell him to piss off and leave her alone, or at least go away until he learns some frigging manners, but before she can even get a word out she sees the plate of food in his hands, and all the words dissolve as her stomach starts to growl.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he says, by way of announcement, and it’s so frigging true that Sera almost forgets she was ever annoyed at all. “Olafin informs me you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

Snorts a laugh at that. “Yeah. Well. Tevinter pissballs don’t exactly treat their slaves kind, do they?”

“No. From my understanding, they do not.” There’s a weight in the way he says it that doesn’t match her own lightness. He narrows his eyes, forehead furrowing, and when he meets her gaze it’s like he’s looking for something. “I trust they did not…”

He coughs, all rough and rumbly, like he can’t bring himself to finish. Probably the first time in as long as they’ve known each other that he’s done that, stopped himself because he’s uncomfortable and not just to prove some stupid point. Makes her think of Harding again, how she said that he cares, that they both do, for each other. And, yeah, that makes her uncomfortable too, but she doesn’t break off, doesn’t clear her throat like him. She just glares.

“What you on about?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “Nothing, evidently. You are otherwise well?”

“Other than the fireball thing, you mean?” She huffs, tries to smile, but the levity disappeared with his coughing and there’s no getting it back now. “Yeah. Fine. You idiots worry too much.”

“I sincerely hope that is the case.” Sounds like he actually means it too, and there’s an odd look on his face as he sets the plate down on the ground between them. “In any case I would suggest that you eat, and eat well. Your body cannot mend itself if it is starved, and I do not wish to waste my energies on healing you again for the simple want of common sense.” He gives her a pointed look. “Though it would hardly be the first time.”

Sera snorts, but she doesn’t argue. She’s past the point of ravenous hunger, past the point of light-headed and dizzy, even past that unpleasant semi-nauseous so-hungry-she’s-not-hungry phase. She starts out slow, with all the best intentions in the world, but it only takes about three mouthfuls of overcooked meat before she’s back to the first point, the ravenous-hunger point, and then she’s going at it like a beast who hasn’t seen food in a frigging year.

Solas watches her eat, silent, hovering over her like some kind of protective whatever, like Sera’s the sort of person who’d ever need something like that. More like he’s just making sure she treats herself right, doesn’t eat too much or too little or too frigging fast. Fat chance of that now, and it makes her bristle. Who does he think she is? Knows she’s not one of them, the pampered prissy grass-eating Dalish, knows that she’s spent her whole life taking care of herself, keeping herself alive, knows that she’s been through shit like this a thousand times or more.

Hates the way he watches. Hates the look in his eye, curious and worried and something else, the same something he always gets. It’s just like Var Bell-Whatever, like there’s something in her she doesn’t know about, like he’s the one who gets to decide in the first place what’s in her and what isn’t, like everything she does is just more frigging ‘proof’ of whatever it is he thinks he sees in her.

Makes her flinch, thinking about it. Makes her remember the frigging Tevinters, the way they looked at her and Whatsisface like there was nothing different about them at all. Sera got the worst of them, yeah, but that was her own doing, her mouth and her attitude and all the shite that makes her _her_. That was the only difference they ever saw, the part where she opened her mouth and he didn’t. Didn’t see the tattoos, the way he spent the whole night meditating and praying to his frigging Creators, none of that. Never even cared.

And why would they? Both make the same profit, right? Both sell just as easily, both work just as hard if you use the right kind of force.

Twists inside her, that, and she shoves the food away long before her hunger’s sated. “Piss on this.”

Solas sighs, like maybe a part of him was expecting that; he can’t possibly know what’s going on inside her head, but the look on his face says he understands more than she wants to believe.

“Sera…”

“What?” Harder than she means it to be, and she hates that it just makes him soften even more. “Not eating with you staring at me like that. Frigging rude, yeah?”

“As you wish.” He’s looking kind of sad now, not like she’s upset him by pushing him away or anything, but like he’s seeing the parts of her she’s trying to hide, the parts that don’t want to be seen. “I shall leave you to yourself them. Should you need me…”

“Doubtful,” she mutters, and gives the plate a vengeful little push.

“Should you need me,” he says again, pointed, “I will be outside with the others. I…” Starts to say something, but seems to think better of it, like he knows she wouldn’t be receptive to anything he has to offer right now. “Be well, Sera.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

She makes a show of turning away, not watching as he rises to his feet. Pretends not to notice the reluctance when he moves, the way he lingers, like he really doesn’t want to leave her alone, like he’s afraid she’ll hurt herself or do something stupid if he does.

He’s not the only one. A lot of people tread on eggshells around her after something like this happens, after she takes a spill or a blade or an arrow. It’s like they think she doesn’t know how to take care of herself, like they don’t trust her not to go off on one, do more damage to herself than whatever she’s just been through. Like they think she’s so frigging volatile.

Makes her straighten up and think, remember things that still hurt, the pain that isn’t as easily forgotten as healed-up burns.

“Hey, Solas?”

He doesn’t turn around, but his surprise is obvious. Shoulders tight, back ramrod-straight, and she can feel the anticipation in the air, the way his breath catches ever so slightly, expectant and maybe just a little bit worried.

“Yes, Sera?”

She takes a breath. Swallows, makes herself remember. “Those Tevinters…”

His shoulders tighten even more, like he’s bracing for something awful. He doesn’t know what to expect, but she can tell he’s thinking of all the worst possible things, mapping out every terrible thought like he maps out the Veil when he casts his stupid spells.

“What of them?” he asks, and it’s like a prayer or something, like a plea.

Sera swallows again, harder, bites down on her lip and focuses on that pain instead, the pain she can control, the pain that’s all her own.

“Elfy enough for them, wasn’t I?”

Says it real fast, has to get it out there, can’t think about the words. And Solas… yeah, she doesn’t need to see his face to see the way he reacts; it goes right through him. The back of his stupid bald head goes pale, fingers clenching into fists at his sides, knees locking to keep him from stumbling. She doesn’t need to see his stupid frigging face to know that he felt it, like _really_ felt it, like felt it right down to his bones. Doesn’t need to see any of that to know it’s there, but he turns back anyway, lets her see the whole picture, the colour of his face and the fire in his eyes.

“Yes,” There’s a tremor in his voice as he says it, and in his legs too when he turns and walks away. “It would appear that you were.”

*

Left alone, she eats like a frigging horse.

For all his stupidity when it comes to normal things, Solas was smart about this. Gave her plenty to get through, yeah, but not enough that she’d eat herself into a stupor. She wonders if he’s seen it before, if he knows the stupid things starvation does to people, if he’s seen and known the same things she has; it would explain how he knows how much is right, just enough that she’s sated, not enough that she’s full. Might explain some other things, too, but she tries not to think too much about that.

In any case, she’s feeling real good by the time she’s done, and she runs her tongue over the plate because, hey, why not? No-one here to shake their damn heads at her for living like the street-urchin she is, and the little scraps left over are real good to chase down the bigger bits she’s torn out with her teeth. Good meal, good food, and real good to be eating alone for once. No eyes on her, no-one whispering about table manners or whatever. Just her and her food. Almost lets her pretend everything’s all back to normal, like nothing happened, like the whole set-on-fire-and-nearly-made-a-slave thing was all just a stupid dream.

Wasn’t, though, was it? All comes screaming back to her as soon as she has nothing to do, as soon as her belly’s full and her hands are empty. Funny how that happens. 

So, yeah, she curls up on the nearest bedroll, face to the wall, and hugs herself real hard. Keeps her eyes closed, breathing shallow, and tries as hard as she can not to think about elves or Tevinters or fireballs.

It shouldn’t mess her up as much as it does. She knows that, yeah? Normal people, like smart and sensible people, they’d be a whole lot more bothered by the part where they got battered and burned and tied to a frigging tree for a frigging day. Might lose some sleep over it, might cry or get shaky, might remember in their skin the places that burned. Not Sera, though; what’s the big deal anyway, now that it’s done? The violence and the way they sneered, their fists on her face and their fireballs on her skin… horrible, yeah, but she’s had worse, and it’s over now, innit? So, yeah, whatever.

No, that’s not the part that gets her, the part that sticks in her throat and slams in her chest. It’s the elf thing. Because, yeah, it’s _always_ the frigging elf thing, and she hates it so much, hates that all the silly shite she says she doesn’t care about cuts deeper every time, deeper than the stuff that should hurt, the stuff that would hurt on a normal person, hates that even the stuff she hates reminds her of all the ways she’s wrong.

Good enough for them, yeah? Good enough for some frigging Tevinter arses who might or might not be working for a magister-turned-darkspawn-turned-frigging-god. Good enough for some flappy-robed tits who want a knife-ear to burn down and beat up and sell into frigging slavery. Good enough for them to make use of her, make her into something valuable, and it makes her sick to her stomach that her stupid frigging elf-ears are worth more to the idiots who’d tear them off for bad behaviour than they ever were to the idiots who put them there in the first place.

 _‘Knife-ear’_ hurts. Of course it does; she’s lived her whole life under the thumb of that one, learning again and again what it means, what human people think of her. _‘Knife-ear’_ means nothing, means worthless, means alienage and back-alley violence, means _‘keep quiet or get shivved’_. Should be the worst, that one, the things it’s cost her, the things it’s done, but it’s not. _‘Flat-ear’_ hurts worse, and not just a little. _‘Flat-ear’_ comes from the people who are supposed to be like her, elf people, her people or whatever. They’re supposed to see her and think _friend_ or _sister_ or shit like that. Instead, they just think the same stuff the humans do.

Elves, right? Supposed to be all about heritage and family and sticking together and all that shite. Supposed to be, yeah, but apparently it only works that way with the right kind. Ears got to be the right kind of pointy, the right kind of sharp, got to have those stupid tattoos covering over centuries of imagined hurt, and who frigging cares that another kind of elf might have a whole different reason for wearing real hurts in different patterns, for wearing the kind of colours that don’t come in ink because Maker — yeah, _Maker_ — forbid they forget where those lines came from.

They don’t stop to look, those ‘proper’ elves, and they don’t even try to see or understand. Don’t bother with anything at all, but still somehow it’s Sera’s fault for being wrong, Sera’s fault for not being good enough, not being enough of an elf. She never even knew her parents, her grandparents, her ancestors or whatever, never learned like they did what it means to be elfy. Never knew the people who made her what she is; they turned their backs on her long before she was born, but still their brothers and sisters point and scowl and tell her that _she’s_ the one who abandoned _them_.

Sera hates dwelling on shit like this, but she does it now. Spends a good long while like that, just lying there on her side, hugging herself and thinking too much about things she’s not supposed to be thinking about at all. A good long while, and why not? It’s not exactly resting, is it, but who cares so long as she’s quiet? Who cares, so long as she’s not making a scene?

Doesn’t realise that she’s not alone until it’s too late. She doesn’t notice the rustle fabric or the crunch of footsteps, doesn’t notice anything at all, until a calloused hand drops down onto her shoulder.

Recognises those callouses, she does, and though her muscles are all seized up from the momentary panic, still she finds herself breaking into an almost-smile. “Harding.”

“The one and only.” There’s a smile in her voice, her usual smile, but Sera doesn’t lift her head to meet it this time, doesn’t want her to see that she’s close to smiling too. “Look. Uh. You can tell me to go, if you want. I won’t get offended or anything. It’s just, you know. You’ve been hiding in here for a while. Figured I’d come to check in on you.”

Sera snorts, but doesn’t tell her to piss off. “Why?”

“Why not?” The question is simple enough, but evasive as anything, and Sera points that out with a grunt. “Okay, all right, you caught me. I wanted to apologise. You know, for making fun before?”

“Right. That.”

“Yeah. That.” Coughs a little, like she’s clearing her throat; not nearly so annoying when she does it as when Solas does. “Didn’t mean anything by it. You know that, right? And I definitely didn’t mean to…” She trails off, blows out a frustrated breath. “Okay, look, I’m not great at this. I’d like to be, you know, but I’m not. One of the reasons I do the scouting and not whatever it is Ambassador Montilyet does. None of those ‘people skills’, you know?”

Sera definitely gets that, not that she’ll admit it. Shows that she understands by rolling over, though, lets Harding get a good look at her face. “Yeah. Sure.”

Harding sighs. “Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. You know I didn’t mean it. Not that way, anyway. I wouldn’t. You’re… I like you, you know? You’re honest, and that’s always good in our line of work. Plus, you smile a lot.”

Sera frowns. She’s been described as a lot of things, but never anything like that; honestly, she never thought that Harding even noticed her much at all. They’ve never really had any reason to acknowledge each other; they do their separate things, and not counting the occasional mission reports, they barely exchange more than a word or two. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, Harding will shoot her a glance from around Lavellan’s bony hip, but that’s about as far as their communication ever goes. Weird, then, that any part of her behaviour would stick out as noteworthy. Harding’s the kind of person who makes a living out of deciding what’s worth noticing and what isn’t, and Sera’s smile… well, yeah, there’s no frigging way that would fall under the first thing.

Makes her uncomfortable, kind of embarrassed, and she looks away. “Look. It’s fine, yeah? You said a thing, I did a thing, don’t make it a thing. Okay?”

Harding stares at her for a long moment, blinking slowly, like she’s trying to make sense of that. Not very good at it, apparently, because all she can come out with is, “I… uh, I have no idea what that means, but okay?”

“Right,” Sera mutters. “Okay. That’s the important part, innit? We’re okay, everything’s okay. It’s all… it’s all…”

Can’t get the word out again, though, can she? And why should she bother, anyway? The look Harding’s giving her makes it real clear that she’s not fooling anyone. She’s looking at her like she’s afraid Sera’s going to break, like she’s afraid all of Solas’s healing will just undo itself or whatever and she’ll catch fire all over again and the whole frigging tent will go up in flames. Stupid, yeah, but that’s exactly what her face is saying. No smiles now, not from either of them.

Worse than the worry, though, is the way that she looks like it _matters_. They don’t know each other well enough for this, not even close, but still Harding’s face says she’d actually really care if all that shit somehow happened. If Sera did burst into flames, take the tent with her, it’s like she’d actually care, and not just because she’s right here with her, because she might burn too. Makes her look so soft, so small, and not like dwarf-small, but sorrow-small, the kind of small that people get when they lose someone, or when they’re afraid of losing someone. Stupid, yeah. Stupid and pointless, but it hits real hard.

“Sera…”

“It’s nothing, yeah?” She swallows hard, shakes her head. Closes her eyes so she won’t have to look at her face. “Just… nothing. Okay?”

She thinks of Tevinters, of frigging Olafin Whatsisface, the way he said _‘flat-ear’_ , the way he made it into a stupid game, a challenge or whatever, the way he used it to keep her focused, keep her attentive, keep her whatever. Like that’s all it is, all it ever was, just a silly frigging game, and not an insult that’s torn up her head for as long as she can remember. Like she can run away from those awful names as easily as he can get himself out of a badly-tied knot.

Don’t mean nothing to him, does it? He’s never had to deal with that kind of shite, has he? Some dickhead human calls him a knife-ear one time, and in the blink of an eye he’s got his whole frigging clan shouldering up next to him, hissing and spitting and standing up for him, knives and bows and whatever else at the ready, just waiting for an opportunity to kill the _shem_ who’d bad-mouth one of their own. Nice for him, yeah? Real frigging nice, but where does Sera go when the same shit happens to her?

Humans call her _‘knife-ear’_ , elves call her _‘flat-ear’_ , and where’s she supposed to look for someone who’ll have her back? Who’s going to shoulder up next to her, tell them they’re idiots, pick up a weapon and threaten blood if that’s what it takes to defend her honour or whatever? She’s not like him, not like anyone; Dalish on one side, humans on the other, and the only thing they’ll ever agree on is that people like her are dirt.

“Sera.” Harding again. Her voice is low, intimate in the quiet tent, and the hand on her shoulder is so frigging soft.

Sera opens her eyes, meets her gaze. “Stop that, yeah? Looking at me like that, like you know what it’s like, how it feels. You don’t understand. Elves and their elfy shite, their _‘proper’_ this and _‘flat-ear’_ that. You don’t get it. You don’t—”

“You sure about that?”

It’s not exactly an accusation, all mocking and judging like it would be from Solas or Dorian or anyone else. Most people would get all huffy about it, yell at her for putting words in their mouths or whatever, for negating their experiences or some such shite. Not Harding, though. Got to feel the same way, got to think Sera’s being unfair, but she doesn’t let it show.

She’s still got that smile on her face, the low rhythm to her voice, like the softness in her hand is trickling through her throat as well, into her words and her feelings, and it’s… it’s good, yeah? Good despite herself, despite them both, and for a second Sera almost forgets who she is, where she is, almost forgets that she ever hated moments like this. Just a second, yeah, but for that little second it makes her want to melt.

“I…” she starts, but Harding cuts her off before she can try for anything more.

“Look. I don’t pretend to know how you elves manage yourselves… or, well, other elves. I mean, I know you don’t… you don’t like to think of yourself like that…” She spreads her arms, tries to smile. “I don’t know how it works with elves, is what I’m saying. But we dwarves… we’re not so different, you know? In theory, anyway. Those of us who live up on the surface… well…” She chuckles, shakes her head, and there’s just a glimmer of self-deprecation creeping into her smile. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever met a real proper Orzammar dwarf?”

Sera blinks. Honestly, even if she had, she’s not sure she’d know the difference. “Dunno,” she admits, a little shamefaced. “Maybe?”

Harding laughs, a humourless sort of laugh, amused in that broken sort of way that hated people get, the kind of laugh that always sounds a hair’s breadth away from tears.

“Oh, you’d know,” she says. “But that’s not… well. To cut a really, _really_ long story short, the whole surface-versus-Orzammar thing, it’s not too far from you and your Dalish. At least, well, as far as I understand it. Elves aren’t really my…” She trails off with another shrug, them presses on. “Point is, as a dwarf, if you live on the surface, you’re nothing. Not even dirt, I guess, because they think that the dirt’s some kind of…”

Shakes her head again, and sighs real heavy. Got an odd look on her face now, like she’s cutting a little too close to some deep-buried issues of her own. Weird, that; Sera’s heard her mentioning the Maker, Andraste, all that Chantry stuff, but she never thought much of it, never thought to ask what ‘proper’ dwarves thought about it all. She tries to remember what Varric’s told her, but he’s even less dwarfy than Harding, and there’s an edge in his voice when he talks about this shit that says he’s not really open to questions about it.

Harding looks like she’s struggling, though, so Sera jumps in with the tiny sliver of knowledge she does have. “The whole rock… stone… thing, yeah?”

“That ‘thing’, yeah.” Another sigh, but this one’s lighter, like she’s grateful. Sera doesn’t know the first thing about this shite, and it’s real obvious, but Harding seems to appreciate that she’s trying just the same. “It’s _a_ thing, yeah. But it’s not _my_ thing. You know?”

“Yeah.” Sera thinks of the Dalish, their frigging ‘Creators’ or whatever they’re calling their gods this week. “Yeah, I know. Get it. It’s like… this bullshit that’s so frigging important to them, and it’s like you’re not worth nothing if you don’t swallow it. No questions, nothing. Just swallow their shit, all of it, or else you’re—”

“Something like that.” It’s a little strained, though, like she’s not really agreeing, just trying to cut Sera off before she can launch into a proper diatribe.

“Right.” Can’t quite let it go, though. Wants to, yeah; she’d do almost anything to bring that smile back to Harding’s face, but once she’s got going on something it’s real hard to slow it down. “And it’s so… so frigging… it’s so _stupid_ , yeah? Frigging _stupid_.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“It is. _Stupid_. Shouldn’t hurt, should it? All that stupid shit. It’s theirs, not ours. Their stupid rocks, their stupid Creators or whatever. All their bullshit stupid rubbish… all of it. Shouldn’t care, should we? Shouldn’t frigging _care_.”

Harding sighs. “Well, it’s not…”

But Sera’s not listening any more. “Hate them. Hate them, hate them, frigging _hate them_. Hate them so much, so frigging much. So much hate, so much frigging _hate_ , and I don’t… I…” Fists clenched, eyes stinging with tears, but she can’t hold it back. “Why? Why do they hate me?”

Harding’s whole face transforms, pain and understanding and something like heartbreak. “Oh. _Oh_.”

It’s not really the realisation kind of _‘oh’_ , though, is it? It’s more like the other kind, that awful sympathetic _‘oh’_ , the kind that Sera gets from Cassandra sometimes after fighting a particularly mean demon, or the kind that Vivienne hides behind rolled eyes and cruel words when she sees how frightened ‘little Sera’ is of her big bad magic in the moments when she’s weak and vulnerable. Makes her angry, that _‘oh’_ , but it’s more than she can do not to melt into it, not to melt into Harding when she leans in and pulls her into a hug.

So tender, yeah, and so awful. Painful and understanding, just like that damned _‘oh’_ , and Sera wishes she could hate that instead of everything else.

“Piss on your _‘oh’_.” Almost believable, the bitterness in her voice, but they both know she doesn’t mean it.

Harding recognises the silent plea hiding under the aggression, the violence, and she holds her just a little tighter.

“Look,” she says. “There’s no easy answers. Not for either of us. I mean, you have to know that already, right? Can’t live as long as you have without knowing it. People like us, we’re not… it’s messy. Figuring out who you are, what’s supposed to be important, when everyone on every side is trying to tell you something different.”

Sera buries her face in the crook of her neck, fights tears. “Yeah.”

Harding chuckles, pats her back. “I mean, I’m a dwarf. No getting around that even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Or, well, I don’t think I do, anyway. I like who I am. Most of it, anyway. But try explaining that to the ‘dwarfy’ dwarves. Try asking them to understand that you can be happy on the surface, that you can live with the humans and not feel like you’re missing out. They’re so set in their ways, so fixated on what they think is proper, and it’s not…” Shakes her head; Sera feels the warmth of her skin, the freckles. “It’s a mess, isn’t it? And what are we supposed to do about it? You and me and people like us. What do we do?”

It’s a rhetorical question, probably, but Sera knows the answer. _‘Don’t let it get to you’_ , yeah. But it is so frigging hard to see shit like that through, so frigging painful to be bigger and better, to turn the other cheek or whatever, when everyone’s pointing different fingers, when everyone’s throwing out a different insult, a different accusation, when everyone’s painting you a different shade of _wrong_.

Sera has built her whole life on not caring what other people think, on not caring how they see her, what they want or expect her to be. Her whole damn life, yeah, defying expectation after expectation, assumption after assumption, but the frigging elf thing breaks her every time. Hates it nearly as much as she hates them, but she can’t do anything about either of them. So, yeah, just like Harding says: what’s she supposed to do?

“Dunno,” she says aloud, and the honesty stings as much as their stupid names.

“Neither do I.” It’s gentle but serious, a quiet confession for her own benefit as much as for Sera’s. “But I guess, at the end of the day… if you can find a place where you do fit, where people accept you for who you are, pointy ears or short and stocky or horns and height or whatever it is that makes you different… if you can find a place where people don’t care, that’s what matters. Right?”

Sera closes her eyes, tries to imagine. “Sure.”

Harding pulls back a little. She can’t flash that smile, not in the middle of all this, so she takes Sera by the hand instead, holds on tight and and squeezes real hard.

“World could end tomorrow,” she says. “Corypheus, the Breach… I’ve almost lost count, you know? Could all be over in the blink of an eye, and I guess… I guess, in the end, you’ve just got to ask yourself, would you rather spend your last days waiting for approval from the people who’ll never give it, or enjoying the company of the people who don’t need to?” She shrugs, like it all makes sense, like it’s really that easy. “Whatever sort of elf you are, whatever sort of dwarf I am… you and me, right now, we’re the same. _Inquisition_. All these people, this big saving-the-world thing we’re doing? That’s us. Might not be the people we want, but they’re still people. They’re still people, and they care about us. ‘Proper’ or not. Enough for them, and maybe… maybe that should be enough for us too?”

Sera thinks of Lavellan, all the ways they clash, all the ways they’ve always clashed. Remembers the way she shook her in Var Bell-Whatever, how she didn’t bother even trying to understand, didn’t even frigging care that Sera was uncomfortable in that place too. Not so easy to reconcile the hard truth with Harding’s idealistic painting.

 _‘She wants you here, lets you stick around; that has to mean she respects you too.’_ Simple, sure, only it doesn’t work that way when the forefront figure of the whole Inquisition is one of the very people who hate her just for what she is. Doesn’t mean the same, and she wonders if Harding would feel that way if the Inquisitor was one of those Orzammar dwarves.

Sera’s got skills, damn good skills; she’s good at locks, fast as lightning in a fight, and the best damn shot this side of the Waking Sea. She’s _useful_ , so much that even Lavellan can’t deny it, but she knows that’s as far as it goes. Soon as she stops being useful, she’ll be out of the picture as quick as anything, and it’ll be the big-shot Inquisitor herself who signs the frigging papers. Won’t say _‘not elfy enough’_ , sure, but when they say their goodbyes, all tight-lipped and tense jaws, they’ll know. They’ll both know.

She thinks of Solas too. Weird, that he’s more accepting than the frigging Inquisitor. Not always good at it, but he tries sometimes. Still not right, though; he only wants her the way _he_ thinks she should be, the way he thinks is proper. Doesn’t want to accept her like she is, the way that’s right for her; he looks at her sometimes like it makes him hurt too, like he feels all the ways she’s not good enough, like the way they look at her means more than the way they look at him. Stupid, that, but it makes her feel strange. Like maybe he does care after all, but only in a really specific way.

 _Enough_. Funny, that choice of words. Because she’s not, is she? Not enough for the Inquisitor, and that means she’s not enough for the Inquisition either. She’s been here before, knows how this game works; she’s been on borrowed time ever since she stumbled into Haven, ever since she signed up and saw that look on Lavellan’s face the first time she said _‘elfy’_. Knew what it meant when she said she could use her; she meant _‘stick around while you’re useful, sure, but no longer’_. Kick Coyrphenarse in the balls, then go back to being the same worthless flat-ear she’s always been.

Should be fine, that arrangement, but it feels like more. Lavellan, yeah, and Solas, and the way she’s never quite ‘enough’ for either of them. Different ways, sure, but it’s always right there; doesn’t matter which way she looks, it’s always one of them looking back with their particular brand of elfiness. Never be enough, will she? Not truly, not for them, and it makes her sick to her frigging stomach that the only time she’s really felt like she was, the only time since joining the Inquisition that she really honestly felt like she was _enough_ was in the hands of those pissbucket Tevinters.

“Wrong way round,” she says aloud, before she can stop herself, then winces when Harding frowns at her.

Doesn’t ask what she’s talking about, Harding. Maybe senses that she’ll never understand, or maybe she just assumes she already does. Can’t possibly feel all those jagged edges and rough lines, but she shakes off the frown real fast and replaces it with a smile. Pretends she gets it, or imagines that she does; either way, Sera finds that she doesn’t quite hate it.

“Maybe,” Harding says. “But we make the most of what we get.”

“Right,” Sera says. Thinks of burial grounds, dead elves, demons in the dirt. Thinks of Lavellan, bony fingers around her arms, shaking her until she rattles. Thinks of Solas stepping between them, soft voice and hard eyes. “That easy, yeah?”

“Of course not. But it’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? We do what we can. Can’t ask for more than that.”

Sera knows that’s true. Before the Inquisition, she lived by shit like that. Never let herself care, never let herself think, and she definitely never went anywhere near that frigging alienage. She stayed away from the elves and they stayed away from her. Never had to stop and wonder what they thought about her, never had to stop and wonder if they thought about her at all. Sure as shit never had any reason to care if they thought she was bloody good enough.

Different now, though. The Inquisition is big, and it’s important. It _matters_. Not just to Coryphallus and his army of demons and Venatori and whatever else, but to everyone, to the whole frigging world. It’s big questions getting big answers, and it means a lot to a lot of people. Means something to Sera too, or could do. Something that might be personal, something that might touch the places she’s struggled with for so long. _Andraste_ , yeah, and _Maker_ ; she’s had so many questions all her life, and this is the closest she’s ever got to finding answers. So close it almost hurts, and it matters, it’s important, it means something to her… except, of course, that every time she gets close, Lavellan shows up at her back. _‘Creators’_ , she says, and they both know she means _‘flat-ear’_.

Harder to ‘make the most of it’ then, innit? Harder when Lavellan takes Solas everywhere they go, harder when she brings Sera to shitholes like this just to show her what ‘elven culture’ really is. Sera can never quite tell if she’s trying to teach her something valuable, or just trying to show her what she’ll never have; can’t quite tell which is worse, to be honest, and she’s long since given up on trying to figure out the Inquisitor’s motivations for anything.

Hard, though. Because, yeah, maybe there is some part of her that wants to, that frigging _aches_ to feel connected, to feel like she’s part of something. Even this, even the thing she hates; if they welcomed her with open arms, if they looked at her and saw someone who was _enough_ , maybe… but they don’t, and she’s not. It’s not _her_ culture, and it’s not _her_ history; doesn’t matter how hard she tries, it’s like a language she never learned, like a world without breathable air. How is she supposed to connect to any of this when the people who live here, _her_ people, keep telling her that she’s not allowed to? How is she supposed to connect to something when her own damned soul insists she never really wanted it anyway?

So many parts of herself all saying different things, and so many people telling her that every version is wrong, and it’s just… it’s too much. Too much, yeah, and still somehow not _enough_.

Shakes her head. Looks at Harding. “Thanks,” she says, and doesn’t mean it.

Harding smiles. Sera can tell she doesn’t believe it either, can tell that she knows this hasn’t really helped; she’s got great eyes, real good for seeing, and she has to smell the bullshit in the way Sera won’t meet her gaze. Still, though, she’s as smart as anyone Sera’s ever met, and maybe she knows that sometimes the best way to help is by pretending you already have. Must have noticed the way her smile makes Sera soft, makes her melt, because it’s wider than ever even though they both know she doesn’t believe a bloody word.

“No problem,” she says. “Feeling better?”

 _Not even a little bit,_ Sera thinks, but Harding’s smile is so frigging pretty and she’s so small and smooshy, and for all her optimism she kind of does understand this shite. Bits of it, anyway. Not her fault that her advice doesn’t work on idiots like Sera, not her fault that Sera isn’t as much of an optimist, that she hasn’t spent her life alone in the wilderness, comfortable and quiet and without dealing with people and their bullshit.

Easier if she had, right? Easier for someone like Harding to be okay with the occasional insult when they’re the exception and not the bloody rule. Not her fault, no more than Sera’s, but it is what it is, and they are who they are. Harding, spending all her time alone, and the insults are so much easier to bear when they’re further away; it’s just who she is, and Sera… well, Sera really likes who she is. Wouldn’t change it, even if it meant she understood more, understood better. Wouldn’t change that pretty smooshy smile for anything, and she doesn’t want to hurt her by bringing all that truth to the front.

So, yeah, she keeps it to herself. Doesn’t say what she’s thinking, doesn’t even shake her head. Just smiles back, as pretty and as smooshy as she can make it with her stupid elfy face, and nods.

“Course,” she says. “Can’t keep me down for long. You know me, yeah?”

Bullshit, of course, and Harding knows it as well as she does. Still, though, she holds that smile, lips chapped and tender as she leans in to kiss Sera’s forehead.

Feels like floating, the press of those smiling chapped lips; feels like connecting, the kind that Sera still can’t quite believe in. Feels like it could be, anyway, but not quite yet. One day, maybe, in a place far away from here, far away from elves and dwarves and people who hate and hurt, far away from places where idiots like them have to cling to abstract ideas like _enough_. Not here, though, and definitely not now.

Harding pulls back, lets the smile touch her eyes. “I know you,” she agrees, and lets the lie warm them both.

*

It’s sundown before Sera ventures out of the tent, and only then because she’s hungry again.

The others, most of them, leave her alone. Lavellan, awkward and uncomfortable, gives her a really wide berth; Sera can tell she’s not sure which part of her she wants to indulge, the part that’s still angry about Var Bellanaris or the part that was maybe a teeny-tiny little bit worried.

Solas keeps to himself; he’s just as conflicted in his own way, Sera knows, caught like always between the Sera he sees and the one he imagines, not quite knowing when she’ll bite his head off for offering his so-called wisdom, and when she’ll let him say it without retort. She likes it that way; keeps him guessing, keeps him on his toes, and she’ll be damned to the frigging Void before she makes anything easy for him.

Even Harding keeps her distance this time; she’s chatting with Olafin Whatsisface over on the other side of the fire, but though she keeps her distance she still takes a moment to glance up, flash that pretty smile, and wave. It’s enough, for now, and Sera breathes easier.

Dorian, thoughtful as always, is the only one who makes the effort to talk to her. It’s partly for show, she can tell; he’s obvious feeling guilty, and it doesn’t surprise her even a little that the first words out of his mouth are, “I suppose I should apologise for my countrymen.”

Sera forces a laugh, takes advantage of his discomfort to snatch a large chunk of meat off his plate. Tries not to think of fireballs, of pain, of knives pointed at her face.

“Whatever,” she says, and shoves the food into her mouth before he can stop her, before the tremor in her voice gets too obvious, before the whole frigging camp can see the tightrope she’s walking. “Your people made me feel more elfy than mine ever have.”

He chuckles, wan and polite, and bumps her shoulder. “Your optimism is, as ever, a ray of sunlight.”

Sarcasm, that, intended as an insult, and Sera laughs with her mouth full. “Yeah? Well, your arse-ness is a ray of… arse.”

Not the best comeback she’s ever had, but it brings a smile to both their faces. For about half a second, anyway, and then it’s gone. Never lasts, piss like that, and lately it’s getting more and more obvious. Not just the elf shite, or the Tevinter shite; nothing really about _them_ , it’s just the frigging world right now. Every time they turn around, every time they look in any direction, there’s something there to wipe the grins off their faces, something there to remind them that the world is shitty, that everything’s going to end and they’re all going to die horribly.

Makes Sera’s heart ache, the way Dorian’s face falls almost as soon as it lifts, the way his moustache starts to droop, like he’s turning inwards, turning away, turning into something new or old; it makes Sera turn away too, squint across the fire, search for Harding’s face and the only smile that never seems to go out.

Dorian clears his throat after a moment, delicate and thoughtful and so frigging Tevinter. “Well,” he says. “Regardless… _regardless_ , Sera, it means _‘in any case’_ …”

“Know that, you tit.” She didn’t, of course, not before he said it, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He chuckles, ruffles her hair, because of course he knows she’s lying. “ _Regardless_ , then… I do apologise. Needless or not, someone should. My homeland is not being painted in a particularly positive light at the moment. Someone needs to stand up for what’s right, yes? And _you_ … well, far be it from me to show such nauseating affection, but…” The smile is back, but it’s sad, tugging down at the corners just like his moustache. “Well, suffice it to say, should anything have happened to you, your absence would have been felt. By me, at least.”

Sera swallows hard. The meat is dry, and she pretends it’s that, not the emotion, that’s clogging her throat.

It’s been a long, long time since she allowed herself to believe piss like that, to imagine that someone might actually miss her if she didn’t come back. Wasn’t in any real danger with those two Tevinter idiots, but that knowledge comes a whole lot easier now than it did at the time. Remembers looking back once or twice, in those awful gut-wrenching moments when the pain flared too high to bear and Hunter Whatsisface was looking at her like she was some stupid flat-ear who couldn’t fight her own battles; remembers thinking back on the Inquisition, people like Dorian, like Blackwall and Cassandra and Bull, the ones who aren’t Lavellan or Solas, the ones she almost thought of as friends, remembers thinking of them and wondering if they ever felt the same.

Can’t say that, though. Can’t look him in the eye, smart-mouth Dorian, and let him see just how badly she needed to hear that, let him see how much it means to her that maybe he does care, that maybe one of them does, that she’s not as alone as her frigging ‘people’ want her to believe, that maybe Harding wasn’t talking out of her arse after all when she talked about being _enough_.

Doesn’t say any of that. Just forces another dry-throated laugh and says, “Sure it would.” Cuts a glance at Lavellan, notes the way she’s trying a bit too hard to look like she’s not listening at all. “Be a right balls-up the next time you need someone to open a lock, innit? Can’t rely on frigging Varric.”

“Oh, perish the thought!” Dorian cries, and clutches his chest. “For a start, half the locks are taller than he is…”

“Hey!” Harding, though her face says she’s rather more amused than offended. “It’s not our fault we’re short, you know. We can’t all be street urchins and inbred magisters. Think of the little people!”

“I’d love to, my dear,” Dorian says. “Truly, I would. But I’m afraid our resident urchin has the monopoly on that.”

Sera huffs. “Don’t deal with _her_ kind of little people. They can take care of themselves.”

Harding nods her approval, flashing a grin and a wink. “You know it.”

Sera wills herself not to blush, not to let them see how much the simplicity of moments like this really mean. “ _My_ people are… we’re more…”

But there it is, isn’t it, the words that turn this whole thing on its head. _My people_ , yeah, and what are they again? It’s not meant to be about this, she knows; it’s meant to be about the ones that matter, the little people without a voice, but it twists and wrenches inside her head, turns into the other thing, the thought that’s still inside her, the thing she can’t shake off. _People_ , yeah, but all she can see are the ones who want nothing to do with her.

“Ugh.” Sounds like a child, petulant and moody, and she doesn’t care. “Whatever. Frigging…”

“Sera.” Solas, speaking for the first time. The name is a warning, a hiss shot out like a fireball from the other side of the camp. “Please try to show a measure of civility. I realise such things do not come easily to you, but you are supposed to be recuperating. As I have said, I have no desire to see my efforts undone by another of your ill-timed tantrums.”

It’s bad timing, but of course he knew that before he said it. Sees the shame and the resentment clashing behind her eyes, sees the tightness in her shoulders, the way her fingers are twitching, sees all the little things, the little tics and tells that give away everything she’s feeling, everything she doesn’t want him to see. Honestly, she halfway expects him to follow up with _‘a proper elf would not deign to behave in such a manner’_ , but he doesn’t. Still, hits hard enough, doesn’t it? Pisshead.

Apparently not content to be a spectator in shit that’s none of his business, Whatsisface picks that moment to clear his throat and join in. “Such… interesting company you keep…”

It’s not quite clear who he’s talking to; Harding’s focused on Sera and Sera’s focused on the floor, but of course it’s frigging Lavellan who assumes he’s talking to her. Fair play to her, Sera supposes; most of the time they are, and the twitch of disdain in his voice is entirely too reminiscent of the others in his frigging clan, the way they spat the same frigging line, always talking _about_ her, never _to_ her. Easy enough to assume he’s talking to the all-powerful Inquisitor, when that’s all anyone ever does.

“I know,” she says, eyes alight as they lock on Sera. “For better or worse…”

Real obvious, the implication there, and Sera explodes before she can stop herself.

“Hey, piss on you! You know what I had to go through to get that bastard back here in one piece? You know what I had to go through to get us out of there alive in the first place?” Locks eyes with Whatsisface, digs up his actual name, makes it into a damn point. “ _Olafin_ , right? You remember. Bloody better. _‘Can’t do it alone,’_ you said. _‘Show me what you flat-ears can do,’_ you said. Good enough when you had no-one else, wasn’t I? Good enough when it was me or frigging Tevinter.”

Dorian leans in, tries to get a hand on her, calm her down. “Come now, Sera. That’s hardly fair, is it?”

It’s a valid point, but she doesn’t care, and she yanks herself out of reach before he can touch her. Spits on the ground, puts her head in her hands, rocks forward. “Piss on ‘fair’. Piss on the frigging lot of you.”

“I was afraid of this.” Solas again, all soft-spoken and gentle, like he’s not the one who started all this, like he doesn’t know exactly why she’s so angry. “Sera, you have been through an ordeal. The pain alone must have driven you mad, to say nothing of any misdemeanours you may have suffered at Tevinter hands. Make light of your suffering as you wish, but do not deny what it was.”

“Never—”

“Shh.” Not a command, but she heeds him just the same, almost against her will. “Now, then. I suggest you stop this behaviour before you do something you regret.”

Sera lurches upright, finds his face. He’s got that awful look on his face again, the one he had in Var Whatever, and she opens her mouth to wipe it off, to tell him that she’ll stop when she bloody well wants to. Anything, yeah? Anything to stop him looking at her like that, cut him off before he gets inside her head, makes her soft and sad, before he can remind her of how everything hurt. Starts to speak, but Whatsisface interrupts her before she can even get a word out. Of course he does, yeah? Of _course_ he bloody does.

“ _Ir abelas, hahren_ ,” he says to Solas. “I fear the fault was mine, not hers. I did not… it didn’t come out as I’d intended, and I…” Clears his throat. “Well. Suffice it to say, I shall keep my thoughts to myself next time.”

“Bloody right, you will,” Sera snarls. “Why don’t you bugger off back to your friends? Your _real_ friends, yeah? Don’t need _your kind_ around here. Don’t—”

“Sera, that’s enough!” Lavellan, shouting loud enough to scare the beasts hunting nearby. “We don’t talk to our guests like that.”

“Why not?” Sera counters. “His sodding _clan_ did.”

Dorian laughs, a helpless little sputter that he tries to mask in an unconvincing coughing fit. “She, ah, does have a point.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Lavellan says; she’s practically shaking with fury now, and honestly Sera can’t help feeling a little vindicated by that. “We are not ‘his sodding clan’.”

That one catches Sera by surprise. It’s the first time Lavellan has shown anything but fawning worship for the frigging Dalish, the first time she’s not tripped over her tongue trying to appease them. It’s all _hahren_ this and _lethallan_ that and all that other shite Sera barely understands. Couldn’t get back to them fast enough after Var Bell-Whatever, couldn’t apologise enough for stupid Sera and her stupid behaviour, and until this very moment she’s been doing exactly the same thing here. _For better or worse,_ she said, like it’s not really frigging clear what that’s supposed to mean, who the _worse_ part is and who the _better_ part is, who it’s always been. Couldn’t have imagined she’d follow it up with something like this. _We’re not them_ , like even she understands why it would be a bad thing if they were.

“You what?”

Lavellan sighs, glares. “You heard me, Sera. Right or wrong, the Dalish have a particular way of dealing with outsiders. They are mistrustful and suspicious, yes, but not without good reason. The Inquisition does not have that luxury.”

 _Right_ , Sera thinks. There it is. Because it’s not about how arrogant they are, the frigging Dalish; it’s about how _lucky_ they are, that they get to behave like idiots while the Inquisitor has to play nice.

“Oh,” she says, voice hard. “Now I get it…”

“Whether you do or don’t, it doesn’t matter.” Her eyes flash, a threat more than a warning. “The Inquisition does not follow the same creed as the Dalish; we work according to our own, as they work according to theirs. And when you are in an Inquisition camp, I expect you to conduct yourself as one of its members. It is as simple as that.” She stops, softens ever so slightly, fury giving way to confusion. “I don’t understand you, Sera. You must have said a million times that you are not Dalish, that you hate the Dalish. Why so eager to behave as one now?”

Makes it sound so simple, but it’s not, and Sera sighs. “Taste of their own bad attitude, innit?” she says, and wills her voice to stop shaking. “Show them what it feels like, being hated by one of their own.”

“You are _not_ —”

Realises what she’s about to say a second too late, and cuts herself off. Might have been enough in another moment, another place, and with someone else, but not Sera, and definitely not now. The damage is done, and there’s no taking the meaning back even if she can put a stop to the words. _You are not one of us_. Right there, innit? Everyone heard, and there’s no going back.

“Like that,” Sera whispers. “Just like _that_.”

Lavellan curses in elven or whatever, a soft hissing sound that Sera doesn’t recognise. Got to be a curse, though, going by the look on her face. “Sera… I didn’t…”

“Sure you didn’t.” Shakes her head, half-blind. “Never do, right? You lot. Never bloody do.”

Lavellan opens her mouth to try again, but Dorian interrupts, defuses the moment before it can explode. He doesn’t move much, but he makes it count. Leans right in, shifts his weight to put himself between them, makes sure to hide Sera’s face, keep it out of sight so the Inquisitor can’t see the hurt, the shame, the tears.

“Yes, well…” he says. “We all say things we regret, don’t we? As our resident apostate hobo rightly suggested, perhaps it’s best if we leave this unpleasant and unfortunate subject behind us for now. It’s late and we’re all exhausted, and, well…” He isn’t really talking to Lavellan, Sera can tell, and his eyes are bright and hopeful as they lock on hers. “Save it for the morning, hm? Clear skies, clear heads, and all that.”

Sera closes her eyes. Doesn’t want to see Lavellan nod and smile and pretend to be the wonderful diplomatic Inquisitor that everyone else sees. Doesn’t want to see Olafin Whatsisface go to her side and whisper things about flat-ears and how they take everything so frigging personal or whatever. Doesn’t want to see Solas, the way he looks at them all like he doesn’t know which one of them is worse. Can’t deal with all that elfy piss right now, and so she doesn’t. Eyes closed, biting her tongue to keep from saying anything at all, and when Dorian scoops her into an awkward little hug she doesn’t even bother to insult him.

Buries her face in his robes and breathes in deep, smells Tevinter and fireballs. Remembers, as hazy and distant as the pain, how it felt, for the first time in her life, to be elfy enough.

Dorian holds her close. “There, there,” he murmurs. “There, there.”

Sera swallows hard. Imagines the snooty one’s voice, the meathead’s face. “Hate this,” she whispers. “Hate them. Hate it.”

His moustache tickles her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Hilarious, that. She sees their faces again, the bastards that took her, the bastards who’d sell her off without a second thought. Tevinters, the kind of slave-keeping fuckers who worship magisters and side with wannabe gods. They’d kill her as soon as look at her, and do far worse besides given half a chance. Burn her up, tie her to a frigging tree, do all manner of things to her without a second thought. _Tevinter_ , yeah, and he knows as well as she does what she’s thinking of when she hears his voice. Countrymen, he called them, and maybe he’s not the same but he’s still one of them. Still _Tevinter_ , sure as shit.

So what does it say, then, that the frigging Tevinter is the only one who’s sorry?

*

They share a tent, the two of them.

There’s a brilliant kind of irony in there somewhere, but Sera’s too tired and miserable to go looking for it. Too tired and miserable for a lot of things, honestly, and of course Dorian gets that. But then, that’s what friends are for, innit? The real kind of friends, the one Harding talked about. Dorian only has to take a look at her face, and he understands frigging everything.

They don’t talk about the important shite. That’s not her, and it’s not really him either; he trusts her, trusts that if she wants to get it out there, she’ll open her mouth for herself. He’ll listen as good as anyone if that’s what she wants, but until she takes that step for herself he’ll keep his nose out like a good boy. Sera loves that about him, loves that he doesn’t pry into the things that matter, doesn’t ask the important questions, only the stupid ones. Arrows, hair, clothes, it’s all good, but the stuff that matters… that, he knows, is hers.

So, instead, they focus on other stuff. Easy stuff, the kind of stuff that doesn’t hurt either of them.

Dorian kicks off his robes with a shrug, poses and postures and pretends to admire himself in an imaginary mirror. Laughs like an idiot when Sera keeps her tunic on, arms folded across her chest. Hilarious, yeah, because they both know all about his particular interests, both know that he doesn’t give a nug’s arse what she is or isn’t wearing underneath. Both know it, yeah, and there’s such fondness in his eyes when he shakes his head and turns away.

“You’re such a silly little thing,” he says, and she swats his backside.

They’re both real careful to ignore the moment when Sera sucks in her breath, fabric brushing too close to the still-healing wound. Dorian shakes his head when it happens, hums a silly little song to block out the sound, and neither of them mention the fact that it was never her tits she was trying to hide.

Pretend not to know. Pretend not to see. Stick to the stuff that doesn’t matter, and that’ll keep them both safe.

It does. Works for them, like it always has before. She doesn’t tell him to keep his magic shite on his side of the tent, and he doesn’t tell her not to snore. He watches the ceiling, and she watches the floor, and for a long time neither of them do or say anything at all. Sera doesn’t think about fireballs, definitely not, and a brief glance in Dorian’s direction tells her that he is definitely not thinking about slaves.

After a long, long time, he finally clears his throat. “Well, then.”

“Well, then.” Enunciates real careful, mocking his accent, and the moment shatters in another burst of laughter.

“I’d be careful with that attitude, if I were you,” he huffs. “Or I’ll be forced to rescind the generous offer I was about to make.”

That gets her attention, like he knew it would; she’s nothing if not predictably materialistic. “Oh? What’s that, then?”

“Well.” He sits up, smirking a mischievous little smirk. “I’d be lying if I said you’ve behaved _well_ out here, little imp, but given the circumstances I suppose it’s understandable. And I do believe I promised you a game of wicked grace for your troubles…”

Sera snorts; it’s blindingly obvious, what he’s trying to do, but she appreciates the effort just the same. “Promised a whole lot more than that, you cheap bastard.”

“Well, we’re not exactly stocked for liquid refreshments out here, are we?” he says, and swats her shoulder. “Your kind should take what you can get.”

The words hammer against her ribcage, a rhythm that threatens to spill over into chaos, into something unpleasant, and she crosses her arms across her chest, covers her tits, the burn, covers every part of her she can.

“Yeah?” If he notices the hitch in her voice, of course he doesn’t mention it. “What’s _my kind_ , then?”

It’s a loaded question, and he knows it; seriousness, wrapped up in casual carelessness. Could ruin everything if he lets his face get soft, if he gives the wrong answer, and so he’s real careful to keep every part of him completely calm.

“Why, vagabonds and scoundrels, of course. The ‘little people’ you’re so fond of. One can hardly afford to be picky when you’re picking pockets.”

It’s a good answer, a real good answer, and every muscle in Sera’s body goes slack with relief. She lets her arms drop to her sides, fingers twitching as they find the ground, steadying herself for a moment or two. There’s no elves in here, she reminds herself. No frigging attitudes, no-one to tell her she’s not good enough; there’s only them, a stupid flappy-robe mage and a stupid little street-urchin. Just the two of them and a deck of cards, and… and where in the world was he even hiding them all this time? Up his frigging arse?

 _Weird,_ she thinks, but not about that. Weird that she feels at home here, and with him of all people. Still feels the tug at her side when she moves, still remembers the heat and horror, their fists in her face, their knife under her jaw, their ropes digging into her wrists. Remembers being a captive, soon to be a slave, remembers being angry and injured and maybe even scared, and all for the sake of people like _him_ , mages and Tevinters and frigging arses. All for his bloody countrymen.

She should resent him for that, she knows, but she doesn’t. Doesn’t even really resent them for it, if she’s honest; just doing their jobs, right? Besides, she wasn’t lying, was she, when she told him that his slave-owning brethren made her feel more like an elf than all the proper elves she’s ever met. Wasn’t lying at all, though she kind of wishes she was.

Would be so much easier, wouldn’t it? Hating someone like Dorian, someone she’s supposed to hate. So many reasons to hate fancy-pants people like him, but here they are, and she doesn’t.

Makes her head hurt. A whole frigging land full of people who look just like her, and the only one she doesn’t hate is the one with friends who set her on fire just to make a profit.

He notices the way she shivers, the way the feeling bears down on her. “Now then,” he chides. “None of that. Sullen Pre-Pubescent Whelp is a hideous colour on you.”

“Yeah?” Sticks her tongue out, smiles because it feels good. “Well, Self-Righteous Tevinter Prick is a hideous colour on _you_.”

“Nonsense!” he laughs. “I’ll have you know, it’s my _best_ colour.”

Easy, this. Laughing, insults. Shouldn’t be, but it is.

She wonders what it says about her, that the only time she finds the hard stuff easy is when it’s wrapped up in insults and whining, when it’s her elbow in his ribs as she tells him to shut it, when it’s his knuckles against her scalp as he ruffles her hair. _Easy_. So frigging easy, and isn’t this exactly what Harding was talking about? Isn’t this what’s important? Belonging somewhere, being here with someone who understands her, who gets her, who knows how to make the hard stuff less hard, who know how to make everything easy? Enough, yeah? Isn’t this _enough_?

“Well?” she says aloud, and smirks when he starts. “You going to deal those cards, or just admire your sodding face in them?”

He claps a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “What? I can’t do both?”

“Not if you want my sovereigns, you lazy tosser. Deal, or go to bed.”

He deals. Of course he does.

And for the next few hours, the flurry of cards and laughter is the only sound in the whole frigging world.

*


	4. This Blindness, This Blessing

*

By the morning, she’s feeling a little better.

She’s also completely frigging broke, because apparently Dorian’s translation of _‘a chance to beat me at wicked grace’_ comes up roughly as _‘a chance to cry like a baby while I take everything you have’_ … but, hey, whatever, right? Money’s just money, innit, and anyway she’ll have plenty of chances to fill up her pockets again the next time they swing by Val Royeaux, with its selfish rich bastards and their open purses. In all honestly, Sera probably doesn’t deserve their coin any more than they do, but at least a member of the Inquisition stands some chance of doing good with it. More than she can say for them, at least in theory.

Anyway. Point is, who’d’ve thought staying up all night losing all her money would be so cathartic? So much so that she actually makes it all the way through breakfast without causing a scene.

Lavellan’s avoiding her, of course. Too much to expect, an actual conversation, and she sits on the opposite side of the fire trying a little too hard not to make eye-contact. Doesn’t look at her, pretends not to listen when she talks, basically spends the whole time wishing that Sera wasn’t there at all. It’s not anger, Sera can tell, though that’s not much comfort; it’s that weird combination of sympathy and guilt and not really knowing how to deal with someone like her, someone who hates so easily and so loudly, who wears her hurt on her sleeve and doesn’t care who sees. Lavellan is Dalish, nothing like Sera at at all, and she keeps her feelings locked up safe and tight where no-one can see them.

Opinions, of course, are something else entirely. And maybe that’s part of the problem between them, the one and only way they’re similar; they both have so many opinions, and neither of them can keep quiet about it. When they clash, they do it loudly, and often in public, and Sera knows as well as Lavellan than it’s because they’re both so frigging passionate about the shit that matters to them. Sera and her Friends, her little people; Lavellan and her frigging pride, her clan, the history that all those frigging elves can’t seem to leave in the past. They just don’t fit, the two of them, but they don’t fit in a way that grinds real loud.

Maybe there’s a part of Lavellan that wants to apologise for last night. Maybe there’s a part of Sera that wants to hear it. But even if there is, they both know it’ll end worse, mentioning it at all. Someone will yell — probably Sera — and then someone else will yell back, and then someone _else_ — probably Dorian — will have to step in and stop them from killing each other. Happens every time, doesn’t it? So, yeah, better for both of them if they just play dumb and quiet, if Lavellan pretends to be the thoughtful Inquisitor and Sera pretends that it doesn’t sting. Better for everyone, yeah? Or easy to pretend it is.

They talk about the day ahead. Lavellan and Solas, mostly. A few minutes with Solas and his healing hands has left Hunter Whatsisface as good as new, and he’s itching to get back to his precious clan. Doesn’t exactly meet with the Bald Idiot Seal Of Approval, moving around so soon after taking a knife to the leg, but it’s not like he can argue, what with the Inquisitor siding firmly with the Dalish; she’s as stubborn as anyone Sera’s ever known when she sets her mind to something, and yeah, of course she’s set her mind to this. Anything for another excuse to play with her fellow fucking elves.

Sera shifts uncomfortably while they talk. Doesn’t matter where the conversation goes, really, or who’s more stubborn than who; for her part she’s screwed either way. If they drag her along, that’s another frigging day’s worth of dirty looks and bad names, and if they leave her behind, that’s her alone again. And, yeah, it’s not that she’s _scared_ or anything, it’s just that she kind of _really_ doesn’t want to be alone while there might still be Tevinters running around.

Normal enough, she supposes, even if she was scared (which she definitely isn’t). Once bitten, twice whatever, innit, and she has no intention of going anywhere ever again without a meat-shield. She’d even take a frigging Dalish one, even take frigging Lavellan, even after last night, if that’s what it’d take to keep her safe. Better that than the alternative. Better _anything_ than the alternative.

Not that it matters really, because she doesn’t get a say in it. Can’t let her decide her own fate, right, and it’s Solas who speaks up first, eyes shadowy as he peers at her over the fire.

“I suggest you remain here this time, Sera. You need rest, and in any case the Dalish are still rather unhappy about—”

“Actually…” Whatsisface, clearing his throat like he’s so damn important, like the frigging outsider gets more say in Sera’s fate than she does. “If it’s all the same to you, _hahren_ , I’d like to have a word with our Keeper about this one? From what I understand, there was a… misunderstanding…”

Sera barks a laugh. “Hear that? Misunderstanding.”

Whatsisface blinks, frowns, then continues talking at Solas. “Yes. And, well, I’d like to try and make it right, if I can. She helped me to escape those _shems_ with my life, and in our clan it is customary in our clan to grant a kind of…” He trails off, gestures vaguely. “Well. In any case, I’d like to present her to the Keeper, if it’s agreeable…”

Sera snorts, angry and bitter. _Agreeable to who?_ She doesn’t want to see those damned Dalish again as long as either of them lives, but it’s pretty clear he’s talking to anyone but her.

Lavellan, of course, is about as happy about the whole thing as Sera is, but she’s got still this whole ‘guest’ thing in her head when it comes to Whatsisface, and apparently it’s not polite or something to say ‘no’ to someone who’s eating your rations for breakfast. Whatever, Sera thinks, and rolls her eyes. Let them decide everything for her, if that’s what they want, and she tells herself it doesn’t matter, tells herself she’ll deal with it, get over it, not frigging care, just as long as there’s enough food. Easier that way, innit? Easier than trying to be her own sodding person.

“If you think it’s a good idea,” Lavellan says, after a really long silence. “I don’t want to risk any more conflict…”

“I’ll talk to them,” Whatsisface insists. “And I’ll take responsibility if things go badly. But she… well. I owe her my life, just as surely as she owes me hers, and we in my clan honour such debts.” Lavellan nods, but refrains from mentioning her own clan. “Flat-ear or not, forgiveness for an indiscretion is the least my people can offer.”

Because, yeah, that’s the important part, innit? Can’t let anyone forget that. _‘Flat-ear’_ and _‘forgiveness’_ ; that’s the piss that matters. Can’t let Sera forget that they’re the ones doing her a kindness, extending a hand to the noble savage _shem_ -lover or whatever. Putting themselves up there on some damn pedestal for handing out something Sera doesn’t even want.

Lavellan audibly grimaces, but agrees just the same. She’s clearly not happy about the whole thing, if only because she doesn’t want to rock the boat, but of course she’d never say so to one of her own. Doesn’t ask Sera her opinion, of course, but neither does Whatsisface, so at least they’re together on that. So frigging easy for them to just assume it’s what she wants; can’t even imagine a universe where she doesn’t. Bet they think she’s been tossing and turning and lying awake all night waiting for an opportunity like this, waiting for the Dalish to turn around and forgive her, waiting for the moment when they’ll open their arms and welcome her back as one of their sodding People.

Dorian’s laughing, thwacking her on the back hard enough that her side twinges where Solas’s healing magic did its thing. Sera doesn’t complain, but she musters a scowl and elbows him a little harder than necessary. He should know better, she thinks, should understand that this isn’t frigging funny, but apparently he’s all caught up on the forgiveness thing too. Probably speaks more about his own issues than hers, she supposes, and can’t really be too angry with him for it. Wonders, briefly, what he’d do if his dickhead father had showed up at Skyhold with open arms, if the forgiveness thing would’ve come so easily then.

Makes her sad, thinking about it, and she shakes her head. Doesn’t know much about Dorian’s issues, and honestly it’s better that way; she’s not good at offering comfort, not any more than he is, and their relationship works best in a kind of mutually-agreeable ignorance. He doesn’t ask questions when they call her ‘flat-ear’ and her shoulders go tight and twisted, and she doesn’t ask him about his family or the gold-shitting luxury he chose to walk away from. Personal shit, that, on both their parts, and the lines are drawn real carefully for them both. Still, kind of stings, the way he gets in on it.

And as for Solas… well. Self-righteous bastard that he is, he just sighs.

*

Scout Harding gets her alone before they leave.

She’s got that pretty grin on her face again, like she’s up to something, and it makes Sera’s knees go a little weak. “Here,” she says, pressing an unopened packet of rations in her hand. “You never know what you’ll run into out there, and I’d hate to think of you going hungry if you get picked up again.”

Sera thinks of fireballs, swallows hard. “Right.”

Harding reads her face, nudges Sera’s hip with her shoulder. “Plus, well, you know… Dalish food.” She sticks her tongue out. “Don’t imagine you’re the type who’d enjoy eating grass…”

Sera snorts. “Bloody right. Sooner go hungry.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Smiles again, touches her hand. “That’s why, you know, rations. Keep you fed good and proper.” Her smile flickers, ever so slightly. “You know, just in case.”

Sera turns the packet over in her hands, musters a smile of her own. “Worried about me, Scout Harding?”

“Worried about anyone who goes through what you did.” Weighted, the way she says it, like she’s making a point inside of a point, like she knows how uncomfortable Sera gets around shit like this, compassion and kind gestures and whatever, like she’s wrapping it up in something less personal, something easier to swallow. “I don’t want to have to waste my time patching you up again. Things to do, you know. People counting on me. I can’t afford to be taking care of bronto-headed babies who run off and get themselves in…” Her voice cracks, almost in time with the way Sera’s shoulders shudder, and she cuts herself off. “Well, you know.”

“Yeah.” Sera swallows again, thinks of yesterday, of _‘you and me, we’re the same’_. “Yeah. That’s…” Coughs, looks at the ground, scuffs her toes in the dirt. “You feed Dorian, too?”

Harding laughs. “That boy could use a little grass, if you ask me. Did you know, he complained once that the tents weren’t _silky_ enough?” Probably exaggerating, that, but Sera can hear the fondness thickening her voice; she has so much affection inside of her, Harding, and she gives it away so easily. Almost makes Sera a bit jealous. “Nope, he can eat what they give him, and be grateful.”

“Right, yeah.” Sera snickers at the idea of Dorian eating grass, or anything, _gratefully_. “I’ll tell him you said that.” 

“You go right ahead. He knows what I think of him.” _I’ll bet he does,_ Sera thinks, and smiles with a fondness of her own. Harding sobers real fast, though, and when she speaks again she’s very serious. “Sera, listen…”

“Oh, no. What’s this with you now?”

“Don’t take that tone.” Keeps right on smiling, but it’s a little tighter now. “It’s just… look, it doesn’t matter, all right? Those Dalish. What they think about you. What they say or do or… well, any of it. It doesn’t matter. You hear me? They’re not your… they don’t…” She wrings her hands, as cute as anything, then takes one of Sera’s in both of hers. “None of that is important. This, us, the Inquisition… that’s what matters. It’s the only thing that does, all right?”

“Yeah.” Getting real hard to keep swallowing, throat thick, but she does it again anyway. “I mean… yeah.”

It’s true, she knows. Like, proper true, the kind of truth she’s been looking for almost her whole life. Lavellan might not like her much, might not even really respect her, but there’s others that do. Dorian, yeah, staying up half the night playing silly card games so she won’t have to think about all that other shit, maybe so he won’t have to think about it either. Bull, Varric, Blackwall, waiting back at Skyhold with drinks in their hands and laughter on their lips. Cassandra out there fighting Fade rifts, sword and shield at the ready, never even thinking twice before taking a blow meant for Sera. All of them, yeah. The ones who matter.

And, yeah, Harding too. Harding, talking about the way she smiles, the way she’d miss her. Harding, sneaking her snacks just to make sure that she eats okay. Harding, with her pretty grin and her quick words and the way she held Sera’s hand when Solas healed her. Harding, as smart and warm and funny as anyone Sera’s ever met. She matters too. More than she thought.

“You’re good,” Harding says, voice low. “Okay? Doesn’t matter if they see it or not. _We_ see it, and we’re the ones who matter.”

Sera opens her mouth. Breathless, stupid, but she doesn’t care. Wants so badly to tell her how much that means, how deep it is, the place inside where the words touch, the place where her smile touches too, the thoughts it sparks in her. Thoughts like _belonging_ and _important_. Wants to tell her all that, yeah, but she doesn’t. Not the time for that now, and definitely not the place.

“Yeah,” she says instead, and lets that be enough for now. “Yeah. You matter.”

Harding bumps her hip again, playful, but her eyes are still serious. “And don’t you forget it.”

Sera looks down at her hands. They’re shaking, so she messes with the rations, turning them over to keep her fingers busy. Lets the gentle crinkling noise calm her, keep her steady and strong in the moment that matters.

“I won’t.”

*

Blessedly for everyone involved, the Dalish are more pleased to see their precious hunter than they are pissed off to see Sera.

A couple of them hiss at her — like, actually frigging _hiss_ , like frigging poison spiders or something — but most of them take their cues from Whatsisface and let her pass without incident when they see she’s won him over. Mostly, they just give her a wide berth, stay away from her while Whatsisface takes their Keeper aside to talk about her in private.

Sera ignores them, obviously. Clings to Harding’s words, grips the rations tight in her fist. Lets the crinkling remind her of the moment, her words, her smile, her everything. Lets it remind her of the shit that matters.

Lavellan leaves her alone. She’s talking to their quartermaster, or whatever the elfy equivalent is, about stocks or supplies or some other rubbish; it’s all business, though her voice is tighter than usual, and Sera blocks it out as easily as anything else.

Dorian’s talking to one of the others, the little one who keeps bouncing on his heels and babbling on about joining the Inquisition; there’s a funny look on Dorian’s face as they talk, sort of happy and sad at the same time, like maybe he’s seeing a little more of himself than he’d like to admit in this idealistic young man who wants to leave his home behind to do some good. Sweet, kind of, or would be if not for the elf thing.

Weirdly, it’s Solas who stays at Sera’s side. He doesn’t pay the others any attention at all, but he watches her real close, like he’s trying to figure out the odds that she’ll go off on one and hurt someone if he leaves her alone. Sera pretends not to notice the way he stands, all tight shoulders and twitching fingers, pretends not to notice the way he shifts every time she balls her fists, the way he flinches every time she moves. Pretends not to notice anything, until he breaks the moment with his stupid voice.

“They will accept you.”

“Good for them, innit?”

He tilts his head. Not quite a nod, but close enough. “You have shed blood for one of their own,” he explains, like she frigging asked. “They have no choice in the matter now.”

“That supposed to make me feel good?” Sera grumbles. “Like, _‘oh, hey, you’re one of us now, because we have no frigging choice’_. A big ‘yay’ on me, right?”

“No.” He sighs, and it makes him sound about a thousand years old. “The Dalish are hypocrites. We both know that.”

 _Bloody right,_ she thinks, and it feels better than she’d ever admit, looking at him and knowing that he feels exactly the same way she does. Sole-arse, of all people, the elfiest elf ever, and he’s the one who gets it, the one standing here with her — not with _them_ , but with _her_ — shaking his head and seeing through all their crap, seeing it for the bullshit it is. Weird, yeah, and maybe there’s something in that, in him and her and being _here_ , maybe, because all of a sudden she doesn’t hate him nearly as much as she thought she did.

“How do you do it?” she blurts out, the words coming hard and fast before she has a chance to think them through.

Solas smirks. Doesn’t even bother trying to hide it, the smug tit, just smirks right into her face, like he’s been waiting for this question his whole life, like he’s really looking forward to making her work for it.

“How do I do what?” he asks, as innocent as you please.

“You know.” He does, yeah, but of course he’s going to make her say it anyway. “All this. These frigging Dalish and their frigging attitude. The way they are, you know, the way they look at me and you and…” Gestures, takes in the whole camp. “They think we’re the same, yeah? You and me, and we… couldn’t be further apart, could we? Couldn’t be. But they look at us like we’re the same and you… you don’t even care. Just stand there and take it like it’s not… like it doesn’t rip your guts out. Like it doesn’t matter.”

“It does not matter.”

“Yeah, it does. Has to, right? Because this… us… we’re not the same.”

Solas sighs again, but it’s a different kind of sigh this time. Weary, yeah, but patient, like he’s readying himself to teach a lesson or something. “It is as I said to you the other day,” he says, very quietly. “I do not care about their opinions any more than I care about yours.”

“Easy as that?” Sera mutters. “Just… stop caring?”

“I did not _stop_ caring,” he says. “I simply never cared in the first place. But you…” He trails off for a moment, looks right into her eyes; Sera breaks away, uncomfortable, stares down at her hands, crinkles the rations again to help herself remember what’s important. “You, Sera, are the one who insists that you do not care for the Dalish. You are the one who claims you do not want their approval or their acceptance. You proclaim loudly and repeatedly that you detest these people and everything that they stand for. Your hatred cuts far more deeply than their empty words.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “Simply that your negative feelings do you rather more harm than good. Here we stand, you and I, and which of us is unscathed by their words? Would you sooner I allow them to wound me, as you do?”

“You make it sound so frigging simple,” Sera snaps. “It’s _not_.”

“No. It is not. You do not want their acceptance, yet their rejection lashes as sure as any slaver’s whip. You do not wish for their approval, and yet you allow their disdain to wound. You hate them, yet you hate that they hate you in turn.”

“Piss on that,” she mutters. “Hate them _because_ they hate me, not the other way round. They’re the ones who judge first, not me. Never met me, did they? Don’t know a bloody thing about me. They just hate me because I live some place they don’t like. Hate me because I like some people they don’t. Hate me because I’m not like them, like I have to be one of them to be worth anything, like that’s the only way, and I… it’s frigging _not_ , yeah? I’m me. I’m me, and I’m _good_ and I…”

Can’t bloody finish, though, can she?

Because, yeah, fact is, she doesn’t know. What is she? Like, what is she _really_? Simple enough to the Tevinters, yeah, those pissheads who burned her down and tied her up and wanted to make a slave out of her; they think she’s elfy enough, right? And Dorian too, looking at her with all that unspoken pity on his face, like she’s some broken flower, like he’s responsible for everything his frigging countrymen ever did.

He got real awkward the first few times they talked. Expected her to hate him just for being what he was, a flappy-robe from Tevinter. So frigging sure she’d hate him for where he came from, but that’s not her. Never be her. Never be like _them_.

Anyway, he was the first one who looked at her and saw those stupid pointy ears and didn’t make it into a thing. Just accepted them, accepted _her_ , with or without them. Didn’t ask what kind of elf she was, didn’t frigging care. Just gave an awkward little cough or two, mumbled something about slaves or whatever, then laughed his fancy-pants arse off when she said that his moustache made him look like a tit.

That’s them, though, innit? Tevinters, the good ones and the bad. Dorian’s real quick to apologise for the shit his people do, but they’d be just the same as him if they were standing here. Don’t care where a pair of pointy ears come from, only that they come with strong shoulders, good hands. Don’t care about your history or your heritage, only how much you can lift and who you can satisfy.

These idiots, though? The frigging Dalish? They care. They’ve got the right ears, the proper ones, and Sera’s got the wrong ones. Flat, yeah; flat and stupid, and no-one’s ever taught her how to stop them from drooping when she gets sad, stop them from lighting up in pink and red when she gets mad; no-one’s ever taught her how to wear them right, wear them _proper_ , and apparently that’s enough to make them flat. _Flat_ , yeah, and why is that such a terrible thing anyway?

Bedded a flat girl once. Flat chest, anyway, didn’t give a piss about her ears. Didn’t really care much about the chest either, to be honest, not when it came down to it; just meant she got to focus on other parts instead. And isn’t that what it’s supposed to be like here too? Isn’t this what the Dalish are supposed to do, focus and study and learn and all that shite? Isn’t that what they’re so frigging proud of, all the hundreds of ways they waste their time learning instead of living? Isn’t that what makes them so damn special? And what’s the point of all that if it doesn’t teach you to be _good_? What’s it worth if it doesn’t teach you to be open, to accept and see and understand people who aren’t frigging like you?

Good for nothing, apparently, because they sure as shit don’t want to know or accept or understand the first bloody thing about her. Flat ears. Flat face, too, no ink on it, and that’s all they need to see. Don’t care what’s underneath, and they’re so locked up in their own precious history they don’t frigging care that maybe she has her own as well. History, that is… and heritage too, maybe, but apparently that’s flat too. Tell it to the marks it left behind. Tell it to the memories that won’t go away. Tell it to her frigging _face_ , and she’ll—

“Sera.”

Shakes herself out of the thought, turns to glare at him. “What now, Sole-arse?”

He touches her hand, doesn’t comment on the cruel nickname. It’s the barest contact, the press of his fingers against her knuckles, but it’s still more than he’s ever tried before.

“Come with me,” he says, soft enough that no-one else could possibly hear.

Sera looks around. Dalish everywhere, all of them looking at her out of the corners of their eyes, making their silly little hissing noises, huffing and shaking their heads like old nobles wondering what the world is coming to because some young whatever scribbled rude notes on the Chantry board. Pissbags, the lot of them.

Glances back at Solas, then, and she’s struck again by how much she doesn’t hate him. Not like she hates them, anyway. Because, yeah, as different as they are, as completely as they disagree on frigging everything, at least he’s made the effort. At least he tries to see things from her perspective. Doesn’t like it, doesn’t agree with anything she says, and he’s nearly as quick as they are to condemn her for her choices, but at least he’ll frigging listen before he passes his judgement. At least he’ll hear her side before he tells her it’s wrong.

Better than their lot, right? Better than any one of them, any frigging day.

“Whatever,” she says, and lets him take her hand.

*

He leads her round the back of the camp, to the place where the halla graze.

Their keeper — master? owner? whatever — isn’t too happy to see them. Solas could probably get away with a polite word and a nod, but Sera’s still dirt until Whatsisface works his diplomatic magic or whatever, and the little pissball isn’t exactly happy about the idea of the grave-disturbing heathen coming within a thousand leagues of his precious animals. Fine by Sera, honestly, but Solas has other ideas, and starts talking at him in elven, all polite and rational and whatever.

Sera doesn’t understand the words, of course, but she recognises that eternal-patience thing he has going, and she definitely recognises the Dalish tit’s tone when he talks back. He’s got that look in his eye too, the one that says he’d be joining his brothers in hissing at her if he wasn’t above such things. Whatever, right? There’s real hate in his eyes when he shakes his head, and Sera knows what he’s thinking, knows what it means when his lip curls up, knows that he wants to spit when he gets right up in her face and mutters _“elvhen’alas”_. Knows it all, even without the pained look on Solas’s face, the way he steps between them.

He’s good at this sort of thing, Solas. Good at keeping everyone calm and clear-headed, and it’s only for his sake that Sera doesn’t take a swing. He keeps his voice real low, real soft, like he’s talking to the animals not the people. Probably wishes he was, to be honest. Sera can’t help herself; she knows it’s for the best, the way he runs between them like this, keeps things from escalating, but yeah, she resents him too. It’s not really _him_ , to be fair; she’d resent anyone who had to do this, fight her battles for her.

Whatever he says, though, apparently it works. The elfy pisshead doesn’t exactly back down, but he does back off, muttering under his breath. “ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” he mutters, eyes on Sera even while he’s talking to Solas. “But on your head be it.”

Solas bows his head, acknowledges with another smattering of elven whatever. Sera doesn’t listen, and she sticks her tongue out at the bastard as he grunts and storms off.

Once he’s sure they’re alone, Solas turns back to her. He doesn’t comment on her behaviour this time, doesn’t call her immature or stupid or anything. He simply watches quietly, allows her a moment to regain control of herself, studies the lines on her face as she glares down at her hands, the crinkling rations-packet, studies the way she tugs at the corners, the way she relishes the noise and the creases, the way she disappears inside herself. Studies her, yeah, and he’s real careful not to interrupt. Funny, how he seems to know, seems to understand that she needs to ground her thoughts, needs to remind herself she hates the Dalish more than she hurts when they hate her.

He waits until she’s done before he speaks, and when he does, it’s with a gentle smile. “What do you know of the halla?”

Sera doesn’t meet his gaze. “Know they’re stinky.”

She’s not sure what he was expecting, to be honest, but it surprises her a whole frigging lot that he actually kind of laughs. It’s a weird sound, a sort of snorting chuckle, like the noise Cassandra makes when she doesn’t want to admit she found something funny; it’s barely a laugh at all, really, but it’s more than she’d ever expected to get out of him.

“A valid assessment, to be sure,” he says, and smirks when she gawks at him. “But that is not what I meant. What do you know, specifically, of the halla and their relationship to the _elvhen_?”

Sera blinks for a very long moment. Shrugs, very slowly, eyes narrowed, because this feels like a trap, but the kind she doesn’t quite know how to escape. “Dunno. They get along good, yeah?”

“That is one way of putting it, yes.” Chews on his lip for a moment, all thoughtful and whatever. “The halla are noble beasts, Sera. Deeply respected, one might even say revered.” He shakes his head, like he’s talking to himself, then sighs. “In many ways, the Dalish treat them with far more dignity than they would ever treat their own brethren.”

Sera bites her tongue. “Right. Because fancy stinky horses are worth more than real people, innit? Frigging—”

“Hush, child.” Real gentle, the way he says it, like he’s trying very hard to keep from coming off as a patronising arse, and there’s an odd look on his face as he approaches one of the halla. Moves very slow, careful, like he’s all but forgotten that Sera is there at all. “We are not here to debate the behaviour of the Dalish.”

“Well, what are we here for?” Sera gripes. “Because if you dragged me here to play with some stinky elfy horse…”

“Halla are not horses.” He’s mostly focused on the halla by now, one hand outstretched, soft sounds clicking in his throat, but he turns halfway back to glare at her. “But to answer your question… we are here, Sera, so that you may learn something.”

The halla takes its sweet time approaching him, but Solas doesn’t rush it. He uses the same patience, the same careful gentleness that he uses on her, waits with his tongue clicking and his fingers outstretched, lets the stupid thing come to him when it’s ready. It’s not particularly happy about it, but it steps forward just the same, keeps coming until they’re nose-to-nose. Sniffs him, loud and snuffly, then slowly, _slowly_ bows its head.

Solas smiles, every muscle in his body going slack with something that looks like relief, and says something to the beast in elven. Weird, Sera thinks, but she doesn’t bother questioning it. Just assumes it’s an elf thing and lets it go. Not for her, none of this, and for her part, she’s too busy trying to figure out which one of them she’s supposed to be watching; they both look frigging weird, and the way they’re sniffing each other makes her uncomfortable.

“You’re mad, you know that?”

Solas chuckles again, softer. “I have been told that, yes.”

He takes a long step back, and then another, keeps going until he’s out of the way, until the halla’s just standing there by itself looking confused and a little bit annoyed. Sera opens her mouth to say _‘you’re mad’_ again, but he silences her before she gets the chance, gesturing with his outstretched hand for her to step forward and take his place.

She stares at him for a moment, hesitant. Hasn’t really seen one this close before; got close enough to know that they stink, close enough to see how proud they are, smug and self-righteous just like their friends the frigging elves, and it makes her uncomfortable, the idea of getting too close to one. Worries it’ll hiss at her like they do, that it’ll stomp its feet, or stomp hers.

Hard to look at it, honestly; here she is, right in the middle of their camp, making nice with their animal, and it makes her shudder. _Their_ halla, yeah? _Their_ frigging pet, and when it leans forward to sniff her she damn near runs for her life.

“Hey!” she yells, but Solas steps in before she has a chance to bolt, hands onto her shoulders to hold her in place. “Watch it, horsey! You’re the stinky one, here, not me!”

The halla, of course, ignores her; it just carries on sniffing her hair like that’s a frigging normal thing to do when you meet someone. Stupid frigging horse thing. Stupid frigging _elfy_ horse thing.

Solas chuckles at her squeamishness, but doesn’t let her go. Waits, patiently, and chuckles again when the halla lets out a snort of its own; if Sera didn’t know better she’d swear they were both bloody laughing at her. All she’s good for, innit, and she’s just about to glare at the stupid animal and point out that at least she has frigging thumbs when it starts to back away.

Doesn’t go far, though. Just a step or two, and then it’s dropping its head right down. Weird, the way it does it this time, and not at all like the way it bowed or whatever for Solas, the way it ducked its head to let him know he was okay or whatever that was. It’s something else this time, something completely different, and it’s only when it starts nudging at her hands, nose cold and wet, that she realises what it’s after.

She pulls her hands back, shoves her rations behind her back. “Stupid thing’s hungry,” she says to Solas, then turns back to the halla. “Frigging horse thing. You can’t eat that. It’s mine.”

This time, Solas doesn’t laugh. “It is not hungry.”

He reaches around, plucks the rations out of her hands, like that’ll prove his point, then guides her empty hands back to the creature’s head, like an invitation. Honestly, now that she doesn’t have any food, Sera pretty much assumes that the halla will get bored with all this, just snort again and bugger off, but it doesn’t. It just nudges her hands again, then again, like maybe Solas was right, like maybe it really isn’t after the food at all.

Sera frowns, too confused to even feign annoyance. “So what’s it bloody doing, then?”

She doesn’t need to turn around to know that Solas is smiling; she can feel the warmth radiating out from him, like this is some great massive achievement, like this is something wonderful, not frigging weird and wrong and creepy. Sera doesn’t understand, and she’s just about to turn around anyway, demand a frigging explanation, when he offers one all on his own.

“It is…” He hums in his throat, thoughtful, like he’s searching for the right words. “It is showing respect, Sera. Simply put, it is _accepting_ you.”

Strikes like a blow, that, like a boot right in the gut. Sera stares at the thing, at the way it’s pressing its nose against her, its stupid cold wet elfy-horse nose, stares at it and chokes down a lump in her throat.

“Don’t be daft,” she manages. Forces a laugh, because she can’t let herself believe this bullshit, can’t let herself think. _Can’t_. “That’s… that’s frigging… that…”

“I assure you, it is the truth,” he says, then steps around so she can meet his eye, blinking as he takes her hands, turns them over until they’re facing upwards. The halla leans in, rests its head across her palms, and Solas’s smile widens. “The Dalish may have lost sight of what it means to be _elvhen_ , but the halla have not. They remember what our people have forgotten.”

All of a sudden, it’s taking everything Sera has not to cry. “I…”

“ _You_ ,” he agrees, like that was a frigging statement.

“Don’t,” she chokes out. “You don’t… you can’t… it’s not… bloody _daft_.”

Solas touches her shoulders again, gentle this time, like he’s guiding her. “Whether you believe it or not, the situation does not change. Whatever the Dalish may think of you, their most revered creatures recognise a kindred spirit.” He leans in, presses his forehead against hers. “You may make of this what you will. Take comfort, if you like, or dismiss it entirely. A ‘stinky horse thing’, as you call it, if that is all you wish to see. Certainly, she will not take offence if you address her thus.”

“She?” Sera asks. “How do you—”

“That is not the question you should be asking.” He pulls away, steps right back, gives her and the animal some space to themselves. “In any event, take from this what you will. She does not demand that you accept her in return, nor will she make crude judgements based on the shape of your ears. She has simply chosen to accept you, Sera, for who and what you are.”

“Yeah?” Can’t stop the tears now, and so she doesn’t bother trying. Lets them fall, and lets him see them. “And what’s that, then?”

Solas takes another step back, and then another. Keeps going until he’s out of reach, until it’s just Sera and the halla, just the two of them together. Should be frigging terrifying, that, but it’s not, and the way the creature rests its head in her hands makes her ache in a place she’d all but burned away.

“That,” Solas says as he leaves, “is entirely up to you.”

*

She stays there for a long time, just her and the halla.

Pets its head when it gets bored with nuzzling her hands, then sits down when her legs get tired. It sits down too, or as close to sitting as stinky horse things can get; it lowers itself to its knees, settles down beside her, flank pressed against her hip, her shoulder. Weird creatures, the halla, but maybe this one is just a little less stinky than the rest. _Maybe_.

Talks to it too, but she’ll deny that if anyone asks.

“Stinky thing,” she says, and it makes a disapproving little snorting noise. “Oh, don’t give me that look, yeah? You know it’s true. Bet you’ve never had a bath in your whole frigging life. Fucking Dalish, innit? Bet they’ve never given you one. Bet they never would. Probably goes against some ancient history thing or whatever. _‘No bathing for the sacred creatures’_ or something, yeah?” Pats its neck, and chuckles when it huffs. “You’d enjoy it. A nice warm bath. Like the sound of that?”

If it has an opinion, the halla keeps it to herself. Sera shrugs, pets its neck a bit more because it seems to like that, and keeps going.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. _‘Baths are for flat-ears’_ or something, right? That’s what they’d say, innit? Your frigging Dalish friends or whatever, them with their stupid live-in-the-woods-or-die-an-outcast bullshit. Bet they never asked if maybe you’d prefer a bath or a city or whatever. Bet they don’t even care what you want.”

The halla gives a little snort, nudges her shoulder with its head. Its nose is still wet and cold, and Sera flinches back a bit.

“Stop that, yeah? Don’t play that game with me. You and your nature and your elves and whatever.” The halla ignores her, of course, and nuzzles her again. “Oi. You hear me or what?”

It gives another snort, like it’s goading her, and she pats it on the head with a sigh, gives up the stupid façade.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Shouldn’t take all my stuff out on you. You’re just a stupid stinky animal, you’re not the one pissing all over me, blah, blah, blah. But, hey, at least you frigging listen, yeah? At least you… at least you do that. And you…” Swallows over a lump in her throat, blinks back fresh tears. “ _Accept_ , yeah? Like what Sole-arse said. That really true?”

It doesn’t say anything, obviously, but she’d swear it nods.

“Right. Good. Because, like…” Sighs, clenches her jaw; she’s talking to a frigging animal, a stupid dumb beast, and she still can’t make the words sound right, still can’t turn all the churning awful feelings into something that makes sense. “Aw, piss. I don’t bloody know, do I? Accept me for what I am or whatever, that’s what Solas says, but what’s it supposed to mean? You got some kind of special magical elf-horse thing that’ll tell me?” No response this time, not even a frigging snort, and Sera growls. “Yeah. Didn’t think so. Talks a big game, Solas, but it’s all bullshit, innit? You don’t care. You don’t give a nug’s arse what I am, what I’m meant to be. You don’t…”

It makes a noise then. A low trumpety noise, something she’s never heard before, and raises its head. Sera stares, startled and confused, watches as it leans in, brings its face real close to hers. Looks her right in the eye, like properly stares into her face, like maybe there are words inside its empty animal head after all. Mad, yeah, but she’d swear it’s trying to talk to her, swear it’s begging her to listen.

Can’t be, she knows, because it’s a frigging animal, a stupid stinky horse thing that can’t even speak, but still it’s looking at her like there are words inside it, or at least feelings, like it understands all the shit she’s going through, all the noise and the chaos and the mess inside her head, all the stupid issues that have been raining down on her head ever since they got to this stupid place, ever since Lavellan started talking about the bloody Dalish, ever since the first one called her _‘flat-ear’_. Like it can see all that, like it understands and it knows, like it really, _really_ wants to tell her that it understands.

Not possible, that. Not possible that a stupid frigging animal understands any of that, much less all of it. Not possible that an animal could look at her like that, see all those things she can’t say, all that shit that’s too frigging complicated to put into words. Not possible, yeah, but there it is just the same, that look in its eyes, all wise and old and beautiful in a strange primal sort of way, a way that sucks her in, holds her close and somehow makes her feel alone and loved at the same time.

Makes her feel _special_ , the way it looks at her. Like, really special, in a way she’s never felt before, like she’s more than the nothing she knows she is, like maybe there is something in her, something like what Solas sees. Makes her feel like she’s part of something, like her name means something, like _she_ means something.

The halla doesn’t care. Got that part right, and she knows it now, feels it right down in her bones and her breath and her blood. It doesn’t care where she came from, doesn’t care if it’s _knife-ear_ or _flat-ear_ or some weird mangled combination of the two. It doesn’t care if the Dalish hate her, if the humans hate her, if everyone in the whole damn world hates her. None of that matters, none of it’s important, and the stupid stinky elfy horse creature doesn’t frigging _care_. It just knows her. It looks at her, and it recognises her, and it knows that she’s a friend, and that’s…

It’s enough. Enough for the halla, that it knows her. Enough for Sera, too, that _someone_ does.

And if it’s not enough for the Dalish…

…well, that’s just too frigging bad, innit?

*

Enough or not, the Dalish don’t kick her out again.

It’s not really acceptance, not in any meaningful sense of the word; they don’t stop glaring, but they stop hissing, and their Keeper has the decency to talk to her face when he tells her she can stay. It’s probably as much of a compromise as either side is going to get, Sera supposes, and while she’s not exactly happy about being forced to stay in this stupid camp full of stupid people who hate her, at least she doesn’t feel so much like dirt any more. Even if they don’t like her, their frigging halla do, and that makes her feel better.

Feels sort of like taking two steps forwards and another two backwards; she still hates them and they still hate her, and that’s not about to change, but at least they can share the same space now without trying to kill each other.

Dorian stands there by her side, grinning like an idiot while the Keeper announces that she’s no longer considered a frigging demon. He makes a show of patting her on the shoulder when they’re done, congratulates her on not being hated any more, uses a whole bunch of big words that she doesn’t understand. Sounds like an insult, whatever it is, and she can tell he’s doing it on purpose, so she thwacks him on the back and pretends it was an accident. Makes her laugh, the way he can’t quite hide his glare quick enough to keep her from seeing it.

Lavellan doesn’t say anything, of course. She looks tired and upset, and Sera can see the guilt still shimmering behind her eyes. It’ll be a long, long time before things get back to normal between them, and neither one of them is stupid enough to attempt reconciliation here. Not with the Dalish all around them, not even once they’re back at camp. It’s going to be a very long conversation, and it’ll have to wait until they’re back in Skyhold, ideally on Sera’s ground, in her safe little closet-room. For now, though, nothing. Not a word.

Solas, naturally, isn’t surprised in the least. He’s standing off on his own, doing nothing in particular, but he crosses to her side when he sees her. Leans in real close, like they’re friends now, like they’re sharing secrets or something like that, and murmurs, “I trust you found what you needed, _da’len_?”

For the first time in her frigging life, Sera doesn’t flinch at the word, the language, the way it vibrates along her ears. “Guess so,” she says, rather more to herself than to him. “Yeah.”

He smiles, a real proper smile, like he really means it. “I am glad to hear it.”

“Yes, yes, aren’t we all?” Dorian, interrupting like always, and he’s grinning too. “I’m sure the whole of Thedas is positively ecstatic. Elves, elves, elves… elves in all directions, and now you can all live in perfect harmony with one another. It’s like a children’s story, so nauseatingly wonderful that even the bunnies are weeping cotton-candy tears of joy.”

Solas rolls his eyes. “That is… rather belabouring the point.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot. No fun among the Dalish. Quite right.” He nudges Sera, gives her a quick wink. “In any case, as much as I hate to be the one breaking up a party — even one with a distressing lack of wine — perhaps we’d best be off? We don’t want this one overstaying her welcome again, now, do we, and in any case my dear deluded countrymen aren’t likely to punish themselves. More’s the pity.”

Sera likes the sound of that, and she bares her teeth. Reaches automatically for her bow, then remembers a moment too late that she doesn’t have it with her, that Solas refused; apparently, she’s not allowed to be armed when she’s still recuperating or whatever. Some bullshit like that, anyway, and she gives him a pointed glare to let him know she’s not happy about it.

“Right,” she says. “Good idea, yeah. Could do with a good old-fashioned arse-kicking.” Since Lavellan is off playing nice with her pretty Dalish whatevers, Sera turns the question to Solas instead. “What about it, halla-whisperer? We off to kick some butts or what?”

Solas averts his eyes, clears his throat. “From my understanding,” he says, “the Inquisitor has already discussed the matter quite throughly with the Dalish. They will be sending two of their finest hunters to assist in the task. A collaboration, of sorts, between their people and ours.” Doesn’t need to say what he thinks about it; the cut of his tone speaks volumes. “Quite the shift in attitude, given their initial suspicion… though in this case I rather suspect they seek vengeance more than justice.”

Sera rolls her eyes; doesn’t much care about the shift in attitude or the vengeance-or-justice thing, but the thought of traipsing through the Holy Land Of Dead Elves with two members of this pissbag clan isn’t exactly her idea of fun.

“More frigging Dalish?” she whines. “Great. Just what we…”

“ _We_ ,” Solas interrupts, as smooth as silk, “shall not be joining them.”

“You what?”

Not especially erudite, that, but it’s the best she can do, and it’s a whole lot more polite than what she was thinking.

Solas, of course, was expecting the outburst almost from the moment the subject came up. He sighs, but there’s a weird kind of levity to it, like a part of him is relieved that they’re arguing about this, something simple and straightforward and normal, that they’re back in the comfortable realm of Inquisition bullshit and all the rest of it, that it’s not about elves and names and words, just Sera being Sera. Easy, stuff like this, and wonderfully familiar for them both.

“We have been through this, Sera. Several times, in fact. My talents as a healer are undeniable, yes, but they are not absolute. You need to recuperate, as you well know, and running all over the Plains looking for a fight is hardly conducive to such a thing.”

“What, I can’t run and recup-whatsit at the same time?”

Dorian splutters a laugh. Solas gives him a delicate scowl and returns to Sera. “No,” he says, quite simply. “You cannot. And in truth, Sera, even if you were at the pinnacle of health, I would still be inclined to suggest that you remain at camp for the duration. You are not clear-headed at the best of times, and these Tevinters…” He trails off for a moment or two, eyes darting down to the place where her tunic is torn-up and scorched. The look is a pointed one, and it makes Sera flush, cover the fabric with her hands. “Well. You are intimately acquainted with the situation. It is personal.”

“Like piss!”

“Oh, come now.” Dorian, and there’s not a one among them who isn’t shocked to see him taking Solas’s side. _Not fair_ , Sera thinks; those two never agree on anything, not ever, but apparently it’s all fun and games when she’s their chosen target. _Whatever_. “Do you really expect us to believe that you wouldn’t gut those poor innocent slavers in a heartbeat, given half the chance?”

“You saying they don’t deserve it?” Sera snaps.

“Of course not. But… well, it’s not exactly Inquisitorial, is it?” Whatever that frigging means. “And you’re on thin ice with the Inquisitor already, let’s not forget. We may have avoided all-out war with the Dalish, by some miracle, but let’s not start running around poking beehives with sticks just to see how long our luck will hold, hm?”

Sera laughs. “Why not? Bet she could use a good poking. Right, Solas?”

Solas flushes furiously, but Dorian leaps in before he can get a word out.

“In any case,” he says, pointedly trying not to laugh, “I rather doubt she’d welcome one from you. Consequently, and in keeping with our delightful apian metaphor, might I suggest that we use honey, rather than vinegar, in this particular case?”

Sera has no idea what he’s talking about now. She got as far as _‘beehive’_ and _‘poking’_ and then it all went funny. “You’re weird, Dorian.”

“So I’ve been told.” He shakes his head, gives her another nudge. “Now, then. Think of this as an opportunity, hm? If last night’s embarrassing display is any stick to measure by, you could stand to take a few lessons from our resident card expert.” He winks at Solas, who bows his head, no doubt equal parts feigned modesty and gratitude for the change of subject. “You could learn a thing or two from him, you know, if you’d open your mind a little. Not too much, though. Wouldn’t want your brains to fall out.”

Sera snorts another raucous laugh. “Him? A frigging card expert? Yeah, right. I bet he doesn’t even know which end of the card is up.”

Solas runs a hand over his face. “They are cards, Sera. In most cases, one could argue that either end is ‘up’. Unless, of course, you were referring to their _sides_ , in which case—”

“Oh, shut it, you!”

“Indeed.” Almost wishes she hadn’t said it now, because he sobers so fast it hurts. “Regardless, Sera, the Inquisitor is quite serious about this. You are confined to rest at our camp. I, meanwhile, am confined to watch over you.”

“What? Like I’m not frigging capable of looking after myself?”

“If you would have it that way.” He gives her a serious look, no snark left in either one of them. “Alternatively, perhaps you should consider the alternative: that our Inquisitor does not detest you as much as you believe, and simply wishes to have a skilled healer on hand in case you should require one.” He glances at Dorian, and they exchange a nod. “For all his talents in other areas, Master Pavus is no healer, and he… well, no doubt he would like to have a word or two with his ‘countrymen’.”

“Quite right,” Dorian says, face like a thundercloud, and doesn’t elaborate.

“In any event,” Solas goes on. “The matter is not one for debate, so I suggest you accept it.”

Sera sighs, throws up her hands. “Inquisitor’s orders, this bullshit?”

It’s Dorian who nods this time. Makes a show of looking like he regrets it, but Sera can tell it’s more to placate her than out of any real feeling. “Inquisitor’s orders.”

“Brilliant.” She gives the ground a violent kick, spits a curse or seven. “Bloody _brilliant_.”

*

Solas insists on taking the scenic route back to camp.

“A little light exercise,’ he says, “will do you a world of good.”

It’s complete bullshit, of course, and he’s real good at pretending he doesn’t hear her when she asks why she couldn’t have gotten ‘a little light exercise’ by killing Tevinters instead of prancing through the flowers like some elfy whatever. He’s real good at only hearing what he wants to hear, and it would make her angry, only the fond look in his face is almost kind of sweet. Like maybe Harding was right, like maybe he does care about her after all.

He’s in no hurry, much to her annoyance; he strolls along like they’ve got all the time in the frigging world, stopping every few seconds to check the ground for Maker only knows what, flowers or dead elves or some other shit that weirdies like him look for in a place built on elven bones.

It hasn’t changed at all, has it? This place, their so-called people, all of it. Day in, day out, and maybe Sera isn’t the same person she was the first time they walked this way, but their footprints still look exactly the same in the dry dirt. She’s changed a little, yeah, but the rest of the world hasn’t; it’s still here, still spinning exactly the same as it did before, the ground still hard and dry and choked on generations of elven blood, and she knows she’s supposed to care about that, knows she’s supposed to have taken something important away from all of this, something about heritage and history and identity, all that shite. Knows she’s supposed to feel something now, feel connected to this place and its ground and the dead elves buried underneath, knows that she’s supposed to feel like she’s a part of something bigger, something that’s more than just her. Knows she should, yeah, but she doesn’t.

It’s hard to say what she does feel, exactly, but the closest word she can find is _tired_. Like, frigging exhausted, so tired she can’t frigging think, and not just in the way someone normal would be tired after getting set on fire and spending a day tied to a tree by would-be slavers or whatever. Not that kind of tired, nah; it’s more like the soul-deep kind of tired, the kind of tired that comes with spending too long in a place full of things that make her feel like dirt, too long pulling herself up from a mire of other people’s blood.

Dead elves. She can handle dead elves. Dead elves don’t look at her like she’s worthless, don’t change their minds with the frigging weather. Dead elves don’t do much of anything… well, not until some daft tit goes and disturbs their graves, anyway; then they sic a demon on you, but honestly how many times does that happen? Point is, it’s not the history shite that gets her worked up like this. It’s not the piss they keep spilling about who they were, what they used to be. It’s not the past, it’s the frigging present. It’s the way the Dalish look at her and the way she looks back at them. It’s not just the way they hate her, though she kind of wishes it was; it’s the way they both hate each other, the way the Dalish can’t see past all that frigging heritage and the way Sera can’t bring herself to care about it at all.

It’d all be so much easier if she could, though, wouldn’t it? So much easier if she could just pick up a book full of elven glory, read it through, cover to cover, and come out of it enlightened and wonderful. So much easier if she could just understand, if she could feel it in her bones like they say she should. So much easier, yeah, but she can’t. She’s tried. She’s tried so frigging hard, but she _can’t_.

Different species, aren’t they? Both got the pointy ears, both got the Tevinters on their tails, but it’s like dwarves and frigging Qunari. Right down in the guts of who they are, they’re just not the same.

Solas stops them after a while, stooping to study a growth of embrium or something. It’s probably an excuse more than a legitimate detour, but Sera’s so caught up in her own thoughts she goes along with it without even thinking.

“I imagine it will mean little to you,” he murmurs, “but you have behaved admirably.”

Sera snorts a bitter laugh, shakes her head. “I know, right? Defile a grave, get set on fire… deserve a frigging medal for that, yeah?”

“Make light if you must,” he says, “but it is the truth. The Dalish are not prone to rescinding a judgement already passed. Your behaviour at Var Bellanaris should have been binding, regardless of anything you may have said or done in your defence. To defile a place as holy as that… it should have been unforgivable. And yet, here we are. Your actions, your _behaviour_ convinced them to rethink their opinion of you.”

“Right. Because that’s why I did it, yeah? Saved some pisshead’s life, saved my own frigging life, just so a bunch of self-righteous elfy pricks could turn around and say _‘oh, well, I guess you’re okay after all’_.”

“Of course not.” He seems to think it’s funny though, and he huffs a delicate laugh. “But that speaks rather more highly of you than it does of them.”

Hits kind of hard, that does. Strange, kind of like a kick, but one that doesn’t hurt. It lands in the middle of her chest, all solid and weird and not really painful at all, and it leaves her breathless for a moment or two. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” He drops down into a crouch, balanced neatly on the balls of his feet; he’s making a show of examining the plant, but Sera can tell that he’s completely fixed on her. “Sera, we have travelled together a great deal. I flatter myself that I understand, at least on some rudimentary level, how your mind works. Its nuances remain a mystery to me, yes, but the fundamentals, the parts that make up who you are… I believe I have a better grasp of your motivations than you would care to believe.”

“Probably.” She shrugs. “What of it?”

“I know, and understand, how you feel about the Dalish. We both know that their rejection hurt you, that you felt unfairly treated, that you were angry. We both know that you are, by your nature, a petty and shallow creature. It would hardly have been beyond you to leave that poor hunter to his fate simply to soothe your wounded pride—”

“Piss on pride,” Sera snarls, and kicks some dirt at his precious plant.

“—and yet you did not.”

Goes without saying, that, and she glares. “Course I bloody didn’t.”

“No. In fact, I imagine the thought of abandoning him did not even enter your mind. Neither, I am sure, did the idea that it might gain the grace of the Dalish if you were to save him.” He looks up at last, locks eyes with her. “You did not so much as consider these things, did you? Not even for an instant. You simply did what you did because you knew it to be the right thing.”

Sera swallows. Not really that simple at all, was it? Fact was, she had no choice. They needed each other, her and Whatsisface. He couldn’t get out without her bloody distraction, and she couldn’t get out without him doing the heavy lifting. She’s tried not to think too much about it since they got free, but there’s a tiny little part of her that can’t help wondering if the whole thing might’ve played out real differently if she hadn’t taken a fireball to the face.

“Guess so,” she mumbles, but she’s not really convinced.

“There is no guessing about it,” Solas says. “I know you, Sera. You did not hesitate, nor would you even if you’d had the option readily available.”

Creepy as anything, the way he does that, like he’s getting into her head, reading the thoughts she doesn’t want to say out loud. Doesn’t want him to see how close he’s got, though, so she just huffs and shrugs and makes like the petulant child he seems to think she is.

“If you say so.”

“I do indeed. You are…” He stands, a single smooth motion, and hands her the plant; it’s warm, _embrium_ like _embers_ , and it tickles her skin. “In truth, Sera, you are far closer to the _elvhen_ than the Dalish could ever hope to be. You are honest, sincere, and kind. Passionate, yes, and more prideful than you would ever admit… but oh, Sera, your spirit is pure, and it is beautiful.”

Sera swallows. Can’t take the good stuff out of that, the part where he called her _pure_ ; has to focus on the other shit, the shit that doesn’t sit right in her.

“So that makes me proper elfy, does it? Having a pure spirit or whatever.” She balls her fist, sharp and sudden, feels the delicate plant crumple between her fingers. “Here I thought it just made me a decent frigging person.”

“I…” He opens his mouth once or twice, then shakes his head, like he realises he can’t argue with that. “Forgive me. An excellent point, and you are correct.”

Sera sighs. She appreciates the concession, but it’s not enough. Could never be enough, not even from him. Too much distance, too much difference, and it’s always going to come back to the elf thing with him. Always going to come back to what makes her _elfy_ instead of what makes her _her_. Won’t work. Can’t work, and if she’s learned only one thing from this place, it’s that _elfy_ isn’t enough.

“Look,” she says. “Solas. You mean good, yeah? Mean well, and I appreciate that. But you don’t… you don’t _get_ it, do you? You think my world’s going to be all sunshine and kittens and rainbows from now on, just because some elfy tits decided I was worth them not hating me? You think that’s what this was about? Because, no, it’s not. Never was. Not even for a second. And you… out of everyone, you should be the one who does get it.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

Sounds like he already knows the answer, the way he says it, but she puts it into words anyway, for both their sakes. “Come on. They piss on you too, don’t they? Like, you know more about elfiness than any of those Dalish pissheads, but they still look at you like you’re dirt just because you’re not one of them. Still look at you like you’re _me_ , like you’re as worthless as…”

“Sera.”

“Yeah.” She takes a breath. Kind of wishes she hadn’t been so quick to smash the embrium; she could really use something to keep her hands busy right now. “It’s just… it’s not _right_ , Solas. Yeah? It’s not bloody _right_.”

He shakes his head, the sunlight deepening the lines on his face; for a moment he looks like he’s about a thousand years old.

“No,” he says, ever so softly. “It is not.”

“Right, yeah? It’s not right to tell someone they’re not good enough when you don’t even frigging know them. It’s not right to tell everyone else that their lives don’t mean shit when you don’t know what they’ve been through. It’s not right, none of it is _right_ , and they…” She throws the mulched-up bits of plant down into the dirt, and spits on the pieces where they fall. “We’re meant to be the same, yeah? But we’re not, and they don’t… we don’t…”

It’s so painful, so frigging _wrong_ , and she spits again to turn the hurt into something solid, something real. Imagines her spit mixing with the blood of all those dead elves.

“Sera.”

“It’s just not right,” she whispers, and gives up. “It’s just not _right_.”

He steps forwards, puts his hands on her shoulders. An invitation, an offer of comfort if she’ll have it, and she does. Lets him pull her in, hold her close, and buries her face in his chest.

“As I said,” he murmurs, and his chest rumbles. “You are correct.”

They stand there together for a very long time. Solas is in no rush to break the embrace, and Sera finds that his bony arms aren’t nearly as uncomfortable as they look.

Weird, she thinks, that he’s the one here now. Doesn’t make sense. Might do, if it was Harding or Dorian; they’ve been where she is, hated by the people they’re supposed to be, derided and judged by the people they’re not. They know what she’s feeling, know that it’s more complicated than _‘oh, hey, the Dalish like you, everything’s good now, right?’_. It’s not about that at all, and they can’t make right a lifetime of hate and hurt, a lifetime of rejection and not being enough, with a half-hearted _‘maybe this time’_. It doesn’t work that way.

They’d get it, yeah, but maybe there’s a part of Solas that gets it too. A little part, anyway, the one that’s cut off from the places where he doesn’t care. The part that led her out to meet the halla, the part that told her _it_ would accept her her, even if the People never would. Shouldn’t have helped, that, but it did. Didn’t want acceptance from the fucking Dalish, but from some stupid stinky elf-horse, it meant a whole lot more than she’d ever admit.

Still can’t explain that. Can’t explain the way it tugged at those places inside her, the places that the Dalish can’t touch, can’t see, won’t ever know. Can’t explain the way she felt when the halla put its head in her hands, when it frigging _trusted_ her, let her touch it, protect it, talk to it. It had never met her before in its life, that stupid animal, but still somehow it knew her. It looked at her, and it _knew_ her. And that was enough, and it… it hurts that it’s not that easy for the rest of them, for the frigging _people_.

It hurts that she still hates the Dalish, hurts that they still hate her; hating _hurts_ , and it doesn’t matter who they are on the inside, her or them, because neither side will ever open its eyes and see.

It’s a while before she pulls away, yeah, and when she does there’s a weird sensation twisting in her gut. Weird, like maybe Solas isn’t not so bad after all, like maybe he’s not such a self-righteous arse as she used to think. He’s the elfiest elf she’s ever met, but looking at him now, seeing the way he looks at her, maybe he’s not so elfy after all. They’re not the same, not no more than either of them are the same as the Dalish, but they’re closer now than the were, closer to understanding each other.

Solas sees how Sera sees the world, how it’s made her what she is, all the little hurts that can’t be healed with his stupid glowy magic-hands. He sees why she hates the Dalish as furiously she does, all the not-so-little ways they push her away before she even bloody meets them. He sees, and he knows, and he listens when she talks. She’s never met another elf who did that, never met one who looked at her, saw all the hurt and the hate inside her, took her in his arms and said, _‘you are correct’_. Never thought she ever would, but here she is, and here he is too, and he’s listening and looking, and he hears and he sees, and he understands.

Tries to, anyway. And that… that’s all she ever wanted, innit? Someone to frigging _try_.

And that’s the Dalish, right there. They never do. Never try, never look, never frigging listen. All that _‘flat-ear’_ piss, but at least Sera knows what ears are for. At least she knows how to use them.

“Never change,” she mumbles, and doesn’t realise until Solas sighs that she’s said it out loud. “Those pricks. The Dalish, yeah? They’ll never frigging change, will they?”

Solas sighs. “Perhaps they will,” he says. “It would not be the first time, after all.”

“Right. Because they’re so big on change, right?”

He chuckles, humourless and cold, and shakes his head. “Contrary to what you may believe, Sera, the People were not always so narrow-minded, so obsessed with their own superiority. Once, a long time ago, we were…”

But it hurts. Hurts him, this time, not her, and she watches with a kind of awe as he struggles, flounders, and falls. Can’t find the words, can’t bring himself to say them. She’s never seen that before, not in him, and this time she’s the one who reaches out. Just a flutter of fingertips against his arm, a reminder that she’s here, that they both are, and she tries to finish the sentence for him.

“Better?” she suggests, an end to his aborted sentence.

He smiles his gratitude. “Indeed. Crude as the term is, and as difficult as it must be for someone like yourself to comprehend. _Better_ , yes. Or, at the very least, _wiser_.” There’s probably a thinly-veiled insult in there somewhere, tangled up in _someone like you_ , but Sera finds that she doesn’t mind. “The elves were not always so insular and untrusting, so quick to turn on their own. And if they can change once, to become what they are now… well, perhaps there is yet hope that they may change again, return to what they once were.”

It sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than her, but Sera doesn’t really mind that either. Weird, how they’ve come to this place, this strange unfamiliar place where she actually cares how he feels.

She touches his arm again, then his shoulder, tries to mirror the way he touched hers. Can’t believe they’re here, the two of them, can’t believe that he’s the one drowning inside himself, that he’s the one looking sad and broken and that Sera’s the one holding him, grounding him, keeping him from losing himself in whatever weird thoughts have taken him. Can’t believe this is how far they’ve come, that this awful place has brought them here, this place that means such different things to them both. Can’t believe it, but here they are, and _Maker_ , it’s enough.

“So…” She says it real quiet, waits for him to raise his head. “What you’re saying is… ‘maybe’? They _might_ change, but then again they might not?”

He chuckles, tilts her chin up to look into her eyes, deep into them, like he’s searching for that strange something he always seems to see. “Eloquently put, yes. In any case, in moments like this, it brings some comfort to hope, does it not?”

“I dunno,” she mutters, mostly to herself. “Think I’d rather actually frigging do something about it.”

“And yet, as I told you before, the world is not quite so simple.”

“Should be.” She opens her eyes a little wider, looks back into his. He looks so old, so weary, like his whole life is a wash of pain and history and dead elves, more even than the ground beneath their feet. Sera can’t imagine carrying around that much weight, can’t imagine ever wanting to. “Be easier if it was…”

“Easier, perhaps. But we would lose so much more than we would gain.” He touches her face, eyes clouded with tears or memories, like he’s not seeing Sera at all, like he’s seeing someone else, someone stronger and cleverer and elfier, someone _better_. “Simplicity is as much a curse as it is a blessing, Sera… and in any case there is nothing we can do about it. The world is as it is, simple or otherwise. We cannot change it by wishing any more than you can change your nature by hating the Dalish, any more than they can change theirs by hating you. We are, all of us, as we are.”

“Not much comfort, that,” Sera huffs.

“It was not intended as comfort. Only as truth.”

Sera sighs, but for once doesn’t fight.

They stand there in silence for a bit, the two of them together. Solas goes back to pretending he’s studying the local plant life or whatever, and Sera watches the clouds crest the horizon, watches the fuzzy silhouette of the Inquisition camp shimmering like a mirage in the distance. Closes her eyes for a moment, and thinks of the all warmth waiting there for her.

Warm fire. The good kind of fire, yeah, the kind that doesn’t burn skin, only food, that doesn’t want to break her for the size of her ears, the kind of fire that brings food and never needs healing, the kind that doesn’t make her angry or scared or frigging helpless. Warm fire, the kind with roasting meat and overflowing cups, the kind with laughter and comfort and friendship, the kind that says _Inquisition_ and _family_ , the sort of family she’s never known, the sort of family she wouldn’t trade for all the Dalish clans in all frigging Thedas. Warm fire, yeah, and the warm hearts of the people she loves who sit around it.

Warm food, too, and warm mugs full of Maker-only-knows-what. Sometimes something strong and dark, for keeping her awake when it’s early. Varric knows the best shit for keeping people alert and focused, and Bull knows the best stuff for waking up stubborn idiots like Sera who sleep on their feet. Good stuff, warm in her chest, and it settles there all day. Sometimes something even stronger, the kind of strong that comes from Dorian’s secret stash, or sometimes Blackwall’s (but only when he knows no-one is looking), the kind of stuff that makes her arrows veer just a little bit to the left.

Warm smiles, too. Harding’s face, when they get back, those freckles and that smile that could break any heart that got near. Dorian, if he and the others get back before the sun goes down, crowing that he was the one who took out all the Tevinters, that he used some special secret mage trick or whatever and sent his countrymen running for their lives. Lavellan, maybe, but only if Solas sits next to her, if he covers her hand with his the way he does sometimes when they think no-one else is looking, if they share a moment that says _we’re not so different_. Then, maybe, and a moment for her and Sera too, a moment where they can forget all the words, all the looks, forget everything except the warmth that lingers.

Warmth, yeah. So much warmth, and just like Harding said, isn’t that the stuff that matters? Isn’t that the important stuff? They can’t take it away, not that. Not the Dalish, not the Tevinters, not no-one. Doesn’t matter what they think, what they say, what they call her. Doesn’t matter, any of it, because this blood-drenched place choked on elven glory isn’t her home; it never was and never will be, and those people won’t ever be hers. Her people are the little people, small and strong, and any one of them is worth a thousand fucking Dalish. Real people, _her people_ , and they matter.

Let the Dalish have their frigging Dales, their Exalted Whatevers. Let them have their history and their heritage and their ‘proper’ elfiness. Let them pretend they matter more than everyone else, that their ears are the only ears that count. If that’s what they need to feel like they matter, like they’re worth something, let them have the whole frigging lot.

Sera doesn’t need it. At least for now, she knows who she is. She knows where she came from, knows what it makes her. She knows that there are worse things to be than a _‘flat-ear’_ , and she knows that she won’t let that name hurt her again. She knows who her friends are, knows what matters, what’s important. She knows a lot of things that those idiots never will, and if that’s the trade-off, sneers and snarls and _‘flat-ear’_ hissed through tattooed lips, then so be it.

She doesn’t care.

*


End file.
